E  STOOD  SMILING  AT  E\CH 
OTHER 


[See  page  16 


THE 

WHITE  PEOPLE 


BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 
ELIZABETH    SHIPPEN    GREEN 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


.- 


THE  WHITE  PEOPLE 


Copyright,  1917.  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  February.  1917 


PS/214 


Ml 

MAIM 


TO 
LIONEL 

The  stars,  come  nightly  to  the  sky; 
The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high 
Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me" 


M111569 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

WE  STOOD  SMILING  AT  EACH  OTHER  .  .  .  Frontispiece 
MY  LIFE  WAS  THE  LIFE  I  LOVED  .  .  .  Facing  p.  22 
I  FELT  AS  IF  SHE  WERE  GLAD  THAT  I  HAD 

COME .       "        52 

HE  WHIPPED  OFF  His  BONNET  IN  A  SALUTE      "        96 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 


THE  WHITE   PEOPLE 


CHAPTER -'f  :\  : 


PERHAPS  the  things  which  happened  could 
only  have  happened  to  me.  I  do  not 
know.  I  never  heard  of  things  like  them  hap 
pening  to  any  one  else.  But  I  am  not  sorry 
they  did  happen.  I  am  in  secret  deeply  and 
strangely  glad.  I  have  heard  other  people  say 
things — and  they  were  not  always  sad  people, 
either — which  made  me  feel  that  if  they  knew 
what  I  know  it  would  seem  to  them  as  though 
some  awesome,  heavy  load  they  had  always 
dragged  about  with  them  had  fallen  from  their 
shoulders.  To  most  people  everything  is  so 
uncertain  that  if  they  could  only  see  or  hear  and 
know  something  clear  they  would  drop  upon 

their  knees  and  give  thanks.     That  was  what  I 

l 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

felt  myself  before  I  found  out  so  strangely,  and 
I  was  only  a  girl.  That  is  why  I  intend  to 
write  this  down  as  well  as  I  can.  It  will  not  be 
very  well  done,  because  I  never  was  clever  at  all, 
and  always  found  it  difficult  to  talk. 

I  say  that  perhaps  these  things  could  only 
have,  happej^ed  to  me,  because,  as  I  look  back 
ever  my,  life,' Idealize  that  it  has  always  been  a 
rathfer  cufious:one.\  Even  when  those  who  took 
eare  of  me  did  not  know  I  was  thinking  at  all,  I 
had  begun  to  wonder  if  I  were  not  different  from 
other  children.  That  was,  of  course,  largely 
because  Muircarrie  Castle  was  in  such  a  wild 
and  remote  part  of  Scotland  that  when  my  few 
relations  felt  they  must  pay  me  a  visit  as  a 
mere  matter  of  duty,  their  journey  from  Lon 
don,  or  their  pleasant  places  in  the  south  of 
England,  seemed  to  them  like  a  pilgrimage  to  a 
sort  of  savage  land;  and  when  a  conscientious 
one  brought  a  child  to  play  with  me,  the  little 
civilized  creature  was  as  frightened  of  me  as  I 
was  of  it.  My  shyness  and  fear  of  its  strange 
ness  made  us  both  dumb.  No  doubt  I  seemed 
like  a  new  breed  of  inoffensive  little  barbarian, 
knowing  no  tongue  but  its  own. 

2 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

A  certain  clannish  etiquette  made  it  seem 
necessary  that  a  relation  should  pay  me  a  visit 
sometimes,  because  I  was  in  a  way  important. 
The  huge,  frowning  feudal  castle  standing  upon 
its  battlemented  rock  was  mine;  I  was  a  great 
heiress,  and  I  was,  so  to  speak,  the  chieftainess 
of  the  clan.  But  I  was  a  plain,  undersized  little 
child,  and  had  no  attraction  for  any  one  but 
Jean  Braidf  ute,  a  distant  cousin,  who  took  care 
of  me,  and  Angus  Macayre,  who  took  care  of 
the  library,  and  who  was  a  distant  relative 
also.  They  were  both  like  me  in  the  fact  that 
they  were  not  given  to  speech;  but  sometimes 
we  talked  to  one  another,  and  I  knew  they  were 
fond  of  me,  as  I  was  fond  of  them.  They  were 
really  all  I  had. 

When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  did  not,  of  course, 
understand  that  I  was  an  important  person, 
and  I  could  not  have  realized  the  significance 
of  being  an  heiress.  I  had  always  lived  in  the 
castle,  and  was  used  to  its  hugeness,  of  which  I 
only  knew  corners.  Until  I  was  seven  years 
old,  I  think,  I  imagined  all  but  very  poor  people 
lived  in  castles  and  were  saluted  by  every  one 
they  passed.  It  seemed  probable  that  all  little 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

girls  had  a  piper  who  strode  up  and  down  the 
terrace  and  played  on  the  bagpipes  when  guests 
were  served  in  the  dining-hall. 

My  piper's  name  was  Feargus,  and  in  time  I 
found  out  that  the  guests  from  London  could 
not  endure  the  noise  he  made  when  he  marched 
to  and  fro,  proudly  swinging  his  kilts  and  tread 
ing  like  a  stag  on  a  hillside.  It  was  an  insult 
to  tell  him  to  stop  playing,  because  it  was  his 
religion  to  believe  that  The  Muircarrie  must 
be  piped  proudly  to;  and  his  ancestors  had 
been  pipers  to  the  head  of  the  clan  for  five 
generations.  It  was  his  duty  to  march  round 
the  dining-hall  and  play  while  the  guests  feasted, 
but  I  was  obliged  in  the  end  to  make  him  believe 
that  he  could  be  heard  better  from  the  terrace— 
because  when  he  was  outside  his  music  was  not 
spoiled  by  the  sound  of  talking.  It  was  very 
difficult,  at  first.  But  because  I  was  his  chief- 
tainess,  and  had  learned  how  to  give  orders  in  a 
rather  proud,  stern  little  voice,  he  knew  he 
must  obey. 

Even  this  kind  of  thing  may  show  that  my 
life  was  a  peculiar  one;  but  the  strangest  part 
of  it  was  that,  while  I  was  at  the  head  of  so 

4 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

many  people,  I  did  not  really  belong  to  any  one, 
and  I  did  not  know  that  this  was  unusual.  One 
of  my  early  memories  is  that  I  heard  an  under- 
nursemaid  say  to  another  this  curious  thing: 
"Both  her  father  and  mother  were  dead  when 
she  was  born."  I  did  not  even  know  that  was 
a  remarkable  thing  to  say  until  I  was  several 
years  older  and  Jean  Braidfute  told  me  what 
had  been  meant. 

My  father  and  mother  had  both  been  very 
young  and  beautiful  and  wonderful.  It  was 
said  that  my  father  was  the  handsomest  chief 
tain  in  Scotland,  and  that  his  wife  was  as 
beautiful  as  he  was.  They  came  to  Muircarrie 
as  soon  as  they  were  married  and  lived  a  splen 
did  year  there  together.  Sometimes  they  were 
quite  alone,  and  spent  their  days  fishing  or  rid 
ing  or  wandering  on  the  moor  together,  or  read 
ing  by  the  fire  in  the  library  the  ancient  books 
Angus  Macayre  found  for  them.  The  library 
was  a  marvelous  place,  and  Macayre  knew  every 
volume  in  it.  They  used  to  sit  and  read  like 
children  among  fairy  stories,  and  then  they 
would  persuade  Macayre  to  tell  them  the  ancient 
tales  he  knew — of  the  days  when  Agricola 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

forced  his  way  in  among  the  Men  of  the  Woods, 
who  would  die  any  savage  death  rather  than  be 
conquered.  Macayre  was  a  sort  of  heirloom 
himself,  and  he  knew  and  believed  them  all. 

I  don't  know  how  it  was  that  I  myself  seemed 
to  see  my  young  father  and  mother  so  clearly 
and  to  know  how  radiant  and  wildly  in  love  they 
were.  Surely  Jean  Braidfute  had  not  words  to 
tell  me.  But  I  knew.  So  I  understood,  in  a 
way  of  my  own,  what  happened  to  my  mother 
one  brilliant  late  October  afternoon  when  my 
father  was  brought  home  dead — followed  by  the 
guests  who  had  gone  out  shooting  with  him. 
His  foot  had  caught  in  a  tuft  of  heather,  and  his 
gun  in  going  off  had  killed  him.  One  moment 
he  had  been  the  handsomest  young  chieftain  in 
Scotland,  and  when  he  was  brought  home  they 
could  not  have  let  my  mother  see  his  face. 

But  she  never  asked  to  see  it.  She  was  on  the 
terrace  which  juts  over  the  rock  the  castle  is 
built  on,  and  which  looks  out  over  the  purple 
world  of  climbing  moor.  She  saw  from  there 
the  returning  party  of  shooters  and  gillies  wind 
ing  its  way  slowly  through  the  heather,  follow 
ing  a  burden  carried  on  a  stretcher  of  fir  boughs. 

6 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

Some  of  her  women  guests  were  with  her,  and 
one  of  them  said  afterward  that  when  she  first 
caught  sight  of  the  moving  figures  she  got  up 
slowly  and  crept  to  the  stone  balustrade  with  a 
crouching  movement  almost  like  a  young 
leopardess  preparing  to  spring.  But  she  only 
watched,  making  neither  sound  nor  movement 
until  the  cortege  was  near  enough  for  her  to 
see  that  every  man's  head  was  bowed  upon  his 
breast,  and  not  one  was  covered. 

Then  she  said,  quite  slowly,  "They — have- 
taken  off — their  bonnets,"  and  fell  upon  the 
terrace  like  a  dropped  stone. 

It  was  because  of  this  that  the  girl  said  that 
she  was  dead  when  I  was  born.  It  must  have 
seemed  almost  as  if  she  were  not  a  living  thing. 
She  did  not  open  her  eyes  or  make  a  sound; 
she  lay  white  and  cold.  The  celebrated  physi 
cians  who  came  from  London  talked  of  catalepsy 
and  afterward  wrote  scientific  articles  which 
tried  to  explain  her  condition.  She  did  not 
know  when  I  was  born.  She  died  a  few  minutes 
after  I  uttered  my  first  cry. 

I  know  only  one  thing  more,  and  that  Jean 
Braidfute  told  me  after  I  grew  up.  Jean  had 

7 


THE   WHITE   PEOPLE 

been  my  father's  nursery  governess  when  he 
wore  his  first  kilts,  and  she  loved  my  mother 
fondly. 

"I  knelt  by  her  bed  and  held  her  hand  and 
watched  her  face  for  three  hours  after  they  first 
laid  her  down/*  she  said.  "And  my  eyes  were 
so  near  her  every  moment  that  I  saw  a  thing 
the  others  did  not  know  her  well  enough,  or  love 
her  well  enough,  to  see. 

"The  first  hour  she  was  like  a  dead  thing — 
aye,  like  a  dead  thing  that  had  never  lived. 
But  when  the  hand  of  the  clock  passed  the 
last  second,  and  the  new  hour  began,  I  bent 
closer  to  her  because  I  saw  a  change  stealing 
over  her.  It  was  not  color — it  was  not  even  a 
shadow  of  a  motion.  It  was  something  else. 
If  I  had  spoken  what  I  felt,  they  would  have 
said  I  was  light-headed  with  grief  and  have  sent 
me  away.  I  have  never  told  man  or  woman. 
It  was  my  secret  and  hers.  I  can  tell  you, 
Ysobel.  The  change  I  saw  was  as  if  she  was 
beginning  to  listen  to  something — to  listen. 

"It  was  as  if  to  a  sound — far,  far  away  at 
first.  But  cold  and  white  as  stone  she  lay 
content,  and  listened.  In  the  next  hour  the  f ar- 

8 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

off  sound  had  drawn  nearer,  and  it  had  become 
something  else — something  she  saw — something 
which  saw  her.  First  her  young  marble  face 
had  peace  in  it;  then  it  had  joy.  She  waited  in 
her  young  stone  body  until  you  were  born  and 
she  could  break  forth.  She  waited  no  longer 
then. 

"Ysobel,  my  bairn,  what  I  knew  was  that  he 
had  not  gone  far  from  the  body  that  had  held 
him  when  he  fell.  Perhaps  he  had  felt  lost  for 
a  bit  when  he  found  himself  out  of  it.  But  soon 
he  had  begun  to  call  to  her  that  was  like  his  own 
heart  to  him.  And  she  had  heard.  And  then, 
being  half  away  from  earth  herself,  she  had  seen 
him  and  known  he  was  waiting,  and  that  he 
would  not  leave  for  any  far  place  without  her. 
She  was  so  still  that  the  big  doctors  thought 
more  than  once  she  had  passed.  But  I  knew 
better." 

It  was  long  before  I  was  old  enough  to  be  told 
anything  like  this  that  I  began  to  feel  that  the 
moor  was  in  secret  my  companion  and  friend, 
that  it  was  not  only  the  moor  to  me,  but  some 
thing  else.  It  was  like  a  thing  alive — a  huge 
giant  lying  spread  out  in  the  sun  warming  itself, 

9 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

or  covering  itself  with  thick,  white  mist  which 
sometimes  writhed  and  twisted  itself  into 
wraiths.  First  I  noticed  and  liked  it  some  day, 
perhaps,  when  it  was  purple  and  yellow  with 
gorse  and  heather  and  broom,  and  the  honey 
scents  drew  bees  and  butterflies  and  birds. 
But  soon  I  saw  and  was  drawn  by  another  thing. 
How  young  was  I  that  afternoon  when  I  sat 
in  the  deep  window  and  watched  the  low,  soft 
whiteness  creeping  out  and  hovering  over  the 
heather  as  if  the  moor  had  breathed  it?  I  do 
not  remember.  It  was  such  a  low  little  mist  at 
first;  and  it  crept  and  crept  until  its  creeping 
grew  into  something  heavier  and  whiter,  and  it 
began  to  hide  the  heather  and  the  gorse  and 
broom,  and  then  the  low  young  fir-trees.  It 
mounted  and  mounted,  and  sometimes  a  breath 
of  wind  twisted  it  into  weird  shapes,  almost 
like  human  creatures.  It  opened  and  closed 
again,  and  then  it  dragged  and  crept  and  grew 
thicker.  And  as  I  pressed  my  face  against  the 
window-pane,  it  mounted  still  higher  and  got 
hold  of  the  moor  and  hid  it,  hanging  heavy  and 
white — and  waiting.  That  was  what  came  into 

my  child  mind :  that  it  had  done  what  the  moor 

10 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

had  told  it  to  do;  had  hidden  things  which 
wanted  to  be  hidden,  and  then  it  waited. 

Strangers  say  that  Muircarrie  moor  is  the 
most  beautiful  and  the  most  desolate  place  in 
the  world,  but  it  never  seemed  desolate  to  me. 
From  my  first  memory  of  it  I  had  a  vague,  half- 
comforted  feeling  that  there  was  some  strange 
life  on  it  one  could  not  exactly  see,  but  was 
always  conscious  of.  I  know  now  why  I  felt 
this,  but  I  did  not  know  then. 

If  I  had  been  older  when  I  first  began  to  see 
what  I  did  see  there,  I  should  no  doubt  have 
read  things  hi  books  which  would  have  given 
rise  in  my  mind  to  doubts  and  wonders;  but 
I  was  only  a  little  child  who  had  lived  a  life  quite 
apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  was  too 
silent  by  nature  to  talk  and  ask  questions,  even 
if  I  had  had  others  to  talk  to.  I  had  only 
Jean  and  Angus,  and,  as  I  found  out  years 
later,  they  knew  what  I  did  not,  and  would 
have  put  me  off  with  adroit  explanations  if  I 
had  been  curious.  But  I  was  not  curious.  I 
accepted  everything  as  it  came  and  went. 


CHAPTER  II 

I  WAS  only  six  when  Wee  Brown  Elspeth 
was  brought  to  me.  Jean  and  Angus  were 
as  fond  of  each  other  in  their  silent  way  as  they 
were  of  me,  and  they  often  went  together  with 
me  when  I  was  taken  out  for  my  walks.  I  was 
kept  in  the  open  air  a  great  deal,  and  Angus 
would  walk  by  the  side  of  my  small,  shaggy 
Shetland  pony  and  lead  him  over  rough  or 
steep  places.  Sheltie,  the  pony,  was  meant  for 
use  when  we  wished  to  fare  farther  than  a  child 
could  walk;  but  I  was  trained  to  sturdy  march 
ing  and  climbing  even  from  my  babyhood. 
Because  I  so  loved  the  moor,  we  nearly  always 
rambled  there.  Often  we  set  out  early  in  the 
morning,  and  some  simple  food  was  carried,  so 
that  we  need  not  return  to  the  castle  until  we 
chose.  I  would  ride  Sheltie  and  walk  by  turns 
until  we  found  a  place  I  liked;  then  Jean  and 

Angus   would  sit  down   among  the  heather, 

12 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

Sheltie  would  be  secured,  and  I  would  wander 
about  and  play  in  my  own  way.  I  do  not 
think  it  was  in  a  strange  way.  I  think  I  must 
have  played  as  almost  any  lonely  little  girl 
might  have  played.  I  used  to  find  a  corner 
among  the  bushes  and  pretend  it  was  my  house 
and  that  I  had  little  friends  who  came  to  play 
with  me.  I  only  remember  one  thing  which 
was  not  like  the  ordinary  playing  of  children. 
It  was  a  habit  I  had  of  sitting  quite  still  a  long 
time  and  listening.  That  was  what  I  called 
it — "listening"  I  was  listening  to  hear  if  the 
life  on  the  moor  made  any  sound  I  could  under 
stand.  I  felt  as  if  it  might,  if  I  were  very  still 
and  listened  long  enough. 

Angus  and  Jean  and  I  were  not  afraid  of  rain 
and  mist  and  change  of  weather.  If  we  had 
been  we  could  have  had  little  outdoor  lite. 
We  always  carried  plaids  enough  to  keep  us 
warm  and  dry.  So  on  this  day  I  speak  of  we 
did  not  turn  back  when  we  found  ourselves  in 
the  midst  of  a  sudden  mist.  We  sat  down  in  a 
sheltered  place  and  waited,  knowing  it  would 
lift  in  time.  The  sun  had  been  shining  when 
we  set  out. 

13 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

Angus  and  Jean  were  content  to  sit  and  guard 
me  while  I  amused  myself.  They  knew  I  would 
keep  near  them  and  run  into  no  danger.  I  was 
not  an  adventurous  child.  I  was,  in  fact,  in  a 
more  than  usually  quiet  mood  that  morning. 
The  quiet  had  come  upon  me  when  the  mist 
had  begun  to  creep  about  and  inclose  us.  I 
liked  it.  I  liked  the  sense  of  being  shut  in  by 
the  soft  whiteness  I  had  so  often  watched  from 
my  nursery  window  in  the  castle. 

"People  might  be  walking  about,"  I  said  to 
Angus  when  he  lifted  me  from  Sheltie's  back. 
"We  couldn't  see  them.  They  might  be 
walking." 

"Nothing  that  would  hurt  ye,  bairnie,"  he 
answered. 

"No,  they  wouldn't  hurt  me,"  I  said.  I  had 
never  been  afraid  that  anything  on  the  moor 
would  hurt  me. 

I  played  very  little  that  day.  The  quiet  and 
the  mist  held  me  still.  Soon  I  sat  down  and 
began  to  "listen."  After  a  while  I  knew  that 
Jean  and  Angus  were  watching  me,  but  it  did 
not  disturb  me.  They  often  watched  me  when 
they  thought  I  did  not  know  they  were  doing  it. 

14 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

I  had  sat  listening  for  nearly  half  an  hour 
when  I  heard  the  first  muffled,  slow  trampling 
of  horses'  hoofs.  I  knew  what  it  was  even 
before  it  drew  near  enough  for  me  to  be  con 
scious  of  the  other  sounds — the  jingling  of  arms 
and  chains  and  the  creaking  of  leather  one  no 
tices  as  troopers  pass  by.  Armed  and  mounted 
men  were  coming  toward  me.  That  was  what 
the  sounds  meant;  but  they  seemed  faint  and 
distant,  though  I  knew  they  were  really  quite 
near.  Jean  and  Angus  did  not  appear  to  hear 
them.  I  knew  that  I  only  heard  them  because 
I  had  been  listening. 

Out  of  the  mist  they  rode — a  company  of 
wild-looking  men  wearing  garments  such  as  I 
had  never  seen  before.  Most  of  them  were 
savage  and  uncouth,  and  their  clothes  were  dis 
ordered  and  stained  as  if  with  hard  travel  and 
fight.  I  did  not  know — or  even  ask  myself — 
why  they  did  not  frighten  me,  but  they  did  not. 
Suddenly  I  seemed  to  know  that  they  were 
brave  men  and  had  been  doing  some  brave, 
hard  thing.  Here  and  there  among  them  I 
caught  sight  of  a  broken  and  stained  sword, 

or  a  dirk  with  only  a  hilt  left.     They  were  all 

15 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

pale,  but  their  wild  faces  were  joyous  and 
triumphant.  I  saw  it  as  they  drew  near. 

The  man  who  seemed  their  chieftain  was  a 
lean  giant  who  was  darker  but,  under  his  dark 
ness,  paler  than  the  rest.  On  his  forehead  was 
a  queer,  star-shaped  scar.  He  rode  a  black 
horse,  and  before  him  he  held  close  with  his 
left  arm  a  pretty  little  girl  dressed  in  strange, 
rich  clothes.  The  big  man's  hand  was  pressed 
against  her  breast  as  he  held  her;  but  though 
it  was  a  large  hand,  it  did  not  quite  cover  a 
dark-red  stain  on  the  embroideries  of  her  dress. 
Her  dress  was  brown,  and  she  had  brown  hair 
and  soft  brown  eyes  like  a  little  doe's.  The  mo 
ment  I  saw  her  I  loved  her. 

The  black  horse  stopped  before  me.  The 
wild  troop  drew  up  and  waited  behind.  The 
great,  lean  rider  looked  at  me  a  moment,  and 
then,  lifting  the  little  girl  in  his  long  arms,  bent 
down  and  set  her  gently  on  her  feet  on  the 
mossy  earth  in  the  mist  beside  me.  I  got  up 
to  greet  her,  and  we  stood  smiling  at  each 
other.  And  in  that  moment  as  we  stood  the 
black  horse  moved  forward,  the  muffled  tram 
pling  began  again,  the  wild  company  swept  on 

16 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

its  way,  and  the  white  mist  closed  behind  it  as 
if  it  had  never  passed. 

Of  course  I  know  how  strange  this  will  seem 
to  people  who  read  it,  but  that  cannot  be 
helped  and  does  not  really  matter.  It  was  in 
that  way  the  thing  happened,  and  it  did  not 
even  seem  strange  to  me.  Anything  might  hap 
pen  on  the  moor — anything.  And  there  was 
the  fair  little  girl  with  the  eyes  like  a  doe's. 

I  knew  she  had  come  to  play  with  me,  and 
we  went  together  to  my  house  among  the 
bushes  of  broom  and  gorse  and  played  happily. 
But  before  we  began  I  saw  her  stand  and  look 
wonderingly  at  the  dark-red  stain  on  the  em 
broideries  on  her  childish  breast.  It  was  as  if 
she  were  asking  herself  how  it  came  there  and 
could  not  understand.  Then  she  picked  a  fern 
and  a  bunch  of  the  thick-growing  bluebells 
and  put  them  in  her  girdle  in  such  a  way  that 
they  hid  its  ugliness. 

I  did  not  really  know  how  long  she  stayed. 
I  only  knew  that  we  were  happy,  and  that, 
though  her  way  of  playing  was  in  some  ways 
different  from  mine,  I  loved  it  and  her.  Pres 
ently  the  mist  lifted  and  the  sun  shone,  and  we 

17 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

were  deep  in  a  wonderful  game  of  being  hidden 
in  a  room  in  a  castle  because  something  strange 
was  going  to  happen  which  we  were  not  told 
about.  She  ran  behind  a  big  gorse  bush  and 
did  not  come  back.  When  I  ran  to  look  for  her 
she  was  nowhere.  I  could  not  find  her,  and  I 
went  back  to  Jean  and  Angus,  feeling  puzzled. 

"Where  did  she  go?"  I  asked  them,  turning 
my  head  from  side  to  side. 

They  were  looking  at  me  strangely,  and  both 
of  them  were  pale.  Jean  was  trembling  a  little. 

"Who  was  she,  Ysobel?"  she  said. 

"The  little  girl  the  men  brought  to  play 
with  me,"  I  answered,  still  looking  about  me. 
"  The  big  one  on  the  black  horse  put  her  down — 
the  big  one  with  the  star  here."  I  touched  my 
forehead  where  the  queer  scar  had  been. 

For  a  minute  Angus  forgot  himself.  Years 
later  he  told  me. 

"Dark  Malcolm  of  the  Glen,"  he  broke  out. 
"Wee  Brown  Elspeth." 

"But  she  is  white — quite  white!"  I  said. 
"Where  did  she  go?" 

Jean  swept  me  in  her  warm,  shaking  arms  and 
hugged  me  close  to  her  breast. 

18 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"She's  one  of  the  fair  ones,"  she  said,  kissing 
and  patting  me.  "She  will  come  again.  She'll 
come  often,  I  dare  say.  But  she's  gone  now 
and  we  must  go,  too.  Get  up,  Angus,  man. 
We're  for  the  castle." 

If  we  three  had  been  different — if  we  had 
ever  had  the  habit  of  talking  and  asking  ques 
tions — we  might  surely  have  asked  one  another 
questions  as  I  rode  on  Sheltie's  back,  with 
Angus  leading  us.  But  they  asked  me  nothing, 
and  I  said  very  little  except  that  I  once  spoke 
of  the  wild-looking  horsemen  and  their  pale, 
joyous  faces. 

"They  were  glad,"  was  all  I  said. 

There  was  also  one  brief  query  from  Angus. 

"Did  she  talk  to  you,  bairnie?"  he  said. 

I  hesitated  and  stared  at  him  quite  a  long 
time.  Then  I  shook  my  head  and  answered, 
slowly,  "N-no." 

Because  I  realized  then,  for  the  first  time, 
that  we  had  said  no  words  at  all.  But  I  had 
known  what  she  wanted  me  to  understand,  and 
she  had  known  what  I  might  have  said  to  her  if 
I  had  spoken — and  no  words  were  needed. 
And  it  was  better. 

19 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

They  took  me  home  to  the  castle,  and  I  was 
given  my  supper  and  put  to  bed.  Jean  sat 
by  me  until  I  fell  asleep;  she  was  obliged  to  sit 
rather  a  long  time,  because  I  was  so  happy  with 
my  memories  of  Wee  Brown  Elspeth  and  the 
certainty  that  she  would  come  again.  It  was 
not  Jean's  words  which  had  made  me  sure.  I 
knew. 

She  came  many  times.  Through  all  my 
childish  years  I  knew  that  she  would  come  and 
play  with  me  every  few  days — though  I  never 
saw  the  wild  troopers  again  or  the  big,  lean 
man  with  the  scar.  Children  who  play  together 
are  not  very  curious  about  one  another,  and  I 
simply  accepted  her  with  delight.  Somehow  I 
knew  that  she  lived  happily  in  a  place  not  far 
away.  She  could  come  and  go,  it  seemed,  with 
out  trouble.  Sometimes  I  found  her — or  she 
found  me — upon  the  moor;  and  often  she  ap 
peared  in  my  nursery  in  the  castle.  When  we 
were  together  Jean  Braidfute  seemed  to  prefer 
that  we  should  be  alone,  and  was  inclined  to 
keep  the  under-nurse  occupied  in  other  parts 
of  the  wing  I  lived  in.  I  never  asked  her  to  do 
this,  but  I  was  glad  that  it  was  done.  Wee 

20 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

Elspeth  was  glad,  too.  After  our  first  meeting 
she  was  dressed  in  soft  blue  or  white,  and  the 
red  stain  was  gone;  but  she  was  always  Wee 
Brown  Elspeth  with  the  doelike  eyes  and  the 
fair,  transparent  face,  the  very  fair  little  face. 
As  I  had  noticed  the  strange,  clear  pallor  of  the 
rough  troopers,  so  I  noticed  that  she  was 
curiously  fair.  And  as  I  occasionally  saw  other 
persons  with  the  same  sort  of  fairness,  I  thought 
it  was  a  purity  of  complexion  special  to  some, 
but  not  to  all.  I  was  not  fair  like  that,  and 
neither  was  any  one  else  I  knew. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  when  I  was  ten  years  old  that  Wee 
Elspeth  ceased  coming  to  me,  and  though 
I  missed  her  at  first,  it  was  not  with  a  sense  of 
grief  or  final  loss.     She  had  only  gone  some 
where. 

It  was  then  that  Angus  Macayre  began  to  be 
my  tutor.  He  had  been  a  profound  student 
and  had  lived  among  books  all  his  life.  He  had 
helped  Jean  in  her  training  of  me,  and  I  had 
learned  more  than  is  usually  taught  to  children 
in  their  early  years.  When  a  grand  governess 
was  sent  to  Muircarrie  by  my  guardian,  she  was 
amazed  at  the  things  I  was  familiar  with,  but 
she  abhorred  the  dark,  frowning  castle  and  the 
loneliness  of  the  place  and  would  not  stay. 
In  fact,  no  governess  would  stay,  and  so  Angus 
became  my  tutor  and  taught  me  old  Gaelic 
and  Latin  and  Greek,  and  we  read  together  and 
studied  the  ancient  books  in  the  library.  It 

22 


"      -**%hd' 

.•"* 

WAS  THt  LIFE  I  I  '  \  LD   T'lj 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

was  a  strange  education  for  a  girl,  and  no  doubt 
made  me  more  than  ever  unlike  others.  But 
my  life  was  the  life  I  loved. 

When  my  guardian  decided  that  I  must  live 
with  him  in  London  and  be  educated  as  modern 
girls  were,  I  tried  to  be  obedient  and  went  to 
him;  but  before  two  months  had  passed  my 
wretchedness  had  made  me  so  ill  that  the  doctor 
said  I  should  go  into  a  decline  and  die  if  I  were 
not  sent  back  to  Muircarrie. 

"It's  not  only  the  London  air  that  seems  to 
poison  her,"  he  said  when  Jean  talked  to  him 
about  me;  "it  is  something  else.  She  will  not 
live,  that's  all.  Sir  Ian  must  send  her  home." 

As  I  have  said  before,  I  had  been  an  unat 
tractive  child  and  I  was  a  plain,  uninteresting 
sort  of  girl.  I  was  shy  and  could  not  talk  to 
people,  so  of  course  I  bored  them.  I  knew  I  did 
not  look  well  when  I  wore  beautiful  clothes.  I 
was  little  and  unimportant  and  like  a  reed  for 
thinness.  Because  I  was  rich  and  a  sort  of 
chieftainess  I  ought  to  have  been  tall  and  rather 
stately,  or  at  least  I  ought  to  have  had  a  bearing 
which  would  have  made  it  impossible  for  people 

to  quite  overlook  me.     But  any  one  could  over- 

23 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

look  me — an  insignificant,  thin  girl  who  slipped 
in  and  out  of  places  and  sat  and  stared  and 
listened  to  other  people  instead  of  saying  things 
herself;  I  liked  to  look  on  and  be  forgotten. 
It  interested  me  to  watch  people  if  they  did  not 
notice  me. 

Of  course,  my  relatives  did  not  really  like  me. 
How  could  they?  They  were  busy  in  their 
big  world  and  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  a  girl  who  ought  to  have  been  important 
and  was  not.  I  am  sure  that  in  secret  they  were 
relieved  when  I  was  sent  back  to  Muircarrie. 

After  that  the  life  I  loved  went  on  quietly. 
I  studied  with  Angus,  and  made  the  book- 
walled  library  my  own  room.  I  walked  and 
rode  on  the  moor,  and  I  knew  the  people  who 
lived  in  the  cottages  and  farms  on  the  estate. 
I  think  they  liked  me,  but  I  am  not  sure,  because 
I  was  too  shy  to  seem  very  friendly.  I  was 
more  at  home  with  Feargus,  the  piper,  and  with 
some  of  the  gardeners  than  I  was  with  any  one 
else.  I  think  I  was  lonely  without  knowing; 
but  I  was  never  unhappy.  Jean  and  Angus 
were  my  nearest  and  dearest.  Jean  was  of  good 
blood  and  a  stanch  gentlewoman,  quite  suf- 

24 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

ficiently  educated  to  be  my  companion  as  she 
had  been  my  early  governess. 

It  was  Jean  who  told  Angus  that  I  was  giving 
myself  too  entirely  to  the  study  of  ancient 
books  and  the  history  of  centuries  gone  by. 

"She  is  living  to-day,  and  she  must  not  pass 
through  this  life  without  gathering  anything 
from  it." 

"This  life,"  she  put  it,  as  if  I  had  passed 
through  others  before,  and  might  pass  through 
others  again.  That  was  always  her  way  of 
speaking,  and  she  seemed  quite  unconscious  of 
any  unusualness  in  it. 

"You  are  a  wise  woman,  Jean,"  Angus  said, 
looking  long  at  her  grave  face.  "A  wise 
woman." 

He  wrote  to  the  London  book-shops  for  the 
best  modern  books,  and  I  began  to  read  them. 
I  felt  at  first  as  if  they  plunged  me  into  a  world 
I  did  not  understand,  and  many  of  them  I  could 
not  endure.  But  I  persevered,  and  studied 
them  as  I  had  studied  the  old  ones,  and  in  time 
I  began  to  feel  as  if  perhaps  they  were  true. 
My  chief  weariness  with  them  came  from  the 
way  they  had  of  referring  to  the  things  I  was  so 

25 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

intimate  with  as  though  they  were  only  the 
unauthenticated  history  of  a  life  so  long  passed 
by  that  it  could  no  longer  matter  to  any  one. 
So  often  the  greatest  hours  of  great  lives  were 
treated  as  possible  legends.  I  knew  why  men 
had  died  or  were  killed  or  had  borne  black 
horror.  I  knew  because  I  had  read  old  books 
and  manuscripts  and  had  heard  the  stories  which 
had  come  down  through  centuries  by  word  of 
mouth,  passed  from  father  to  son. 

But  there  was  one  man  who  did  not  write  as 
if  he  believed  the  world  had  begun  and  would 
end  with  him.  He  knew  he  was  only  one,  and 
part  of  all  the  rest.  The  name  I  shall  give  him 
is  Hector  MacNairn.  He  was  a  Scotchman, 
but  he  had  lived  in  many  a  land.  The  first 
time  I  read  a  book  he  had  written  I  caught  my 
breath  with  joy,  again  and  again.  I  knew  I 
had  found  a  friend,  even  though  there  was  no 
likelihood  that  I  should  ever  see  his  face.  He 
was  a  great  and  famous  writer,  and  all  the 
world  honored  him;  while  I,  hidden  away  in 
my  castle  on  a  rock  on  the  edge  of  Muircarrie, 
was  so  far  from  being  interesting  or  clever  that 
even  in  my  grandest  evening  dress  and  tiara  of 

26 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

jewels  I  was  as  insignificant  as  a  mouse.  In 
fact,  I  always  felt  rather  silly  when  I  was 
obliged  to  wear  my  diamonds  on  state  occasions 
as  custom  sometimes  demanded. 

Mr.  MacNairn  wrote  essays  and  poems,  and 
marvelous  stories  which  were  always  real 
though  they  were  called  fiction.  Wheresoever 
his  story  was  placed — howsoever  remote  and 
unknown  the  scene — it  was  a  real  place,  and  the 
people  who  lived  in  it  were  real,  as  if  he  had  some 
magic  power  to  call  up  human  things  to  breathe 
and  live  and  set  one's  heart  beating.  I  read 
everything  he  wrote.  I  read  every  word  of  his 
again  and  again.  I  always  kept  some  book  of 
his  near  enough  to  be  able  to  touch  it  with  my 
hand;  and  often  I  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  library 
holding  one  open  on  my  lap  for  an  hour  or  more, 
only  because  it  meant  a  warm,  close  companion 
ship.  It  seemed  at  those  times  as  if  he  sat 
near  me  in  the  dim  glow  and  we  understood 
each  other's  thoughts  without  using  words,  as 
Wee  Brown  Elspeth  and  I  had  understood — 
only  this  was  a  deeper  thing. 

I  had  felt  near  him  in  this  way  for  several 
years,  and  every  year  he  had  grown  more 

27 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

famous,  when  it  happened  that  one  June  my 
guardian,  Sir  Ian,  required  me  to  go  to  London 
to  see  my  lawyers  and  sign  some  important  docu 
ments  connected  with  the  management  of  the 
estate.  I  was  to  go  to  his  house  to  spend  a 
week  or  more,  attend  a  Drawing-Room,  and 
show  myself  at  a  few  great  parties  in  a  proper 
manner,  this  being  considered  my  duty  toward 
my  relatives.  These,  I  believe,  were  secretly 
afraid  that  if  I  were  never  seen  their  world 
would  condemn  my  guardian  for  neglect  of  his 
charge,  or  would  decide  that  I  was  of  unsound 
mind  and  intentionally  kept  hidden  away  at 
Muircarrie.  He  was  an  honorable  man,  and 
his  wife  was  a  well-meaning  woman.  I  did  not 
wish  to  do  them  an  injustice,  so  I  paid  them 
yearly  visits  and  tried  to  behave  as  they  wished, 
much  as  I  disliked  to  be  dressed  in  fine  frocks 
and  to  wear  diamonds  on  my  little  head  and 
round  my  thin  neck. 

It  was  an  odd  thing  that  this  time  I  found  I 
did  not  dread  the  visit  to  London  as  much  as  I 
usually  did.  For  some  unknown  reason  I  be 
came  conscious  that  I  was  not  really  reluctant 
to  go.  Usually  the  thought  of  the  days  before 

28 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

me  made  me  restless  and  low-spirited.  London 
always  seemed  so  confused  and  crowded,  and 
made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  being  pushed  and 
jostled  by  a  mob  always  making  a  tiresome 
noise.  But  this  time  I  felt  as  if  I  should  some 
how  find  a  clear  place  to  stand  in,  where  I 
could  look  on  and  listen  without  being  bewil 
dered.  It  was  a  curious  feeling;  I  could  not 
help  noticing  and  wondering  about  it. 

I  knew  afterward  that  it  came  to  me  because 
a  change  was  drawing  near.  I  wish  so  much 
that  I  could  tell  about  it  in  a  better  way.  But 
I  have  only  my  own  way,  which  I  am  afraid 
seems  very  like  a  school-girl's. 

Jean  Braidfute  made  the  journey  with  me, 
as  she  always  did,  and  it  was  like  every  other 
journey.  Only  one  incident  made  it  different, 
and  when  it  occurred  there  seemed  nothing 
unusual  in  it.  It  was  only  a  bit  of  sad,  every 
day  life  which  touched  me.  There  is  nothing 
new  in  seeing  a  poor  woman  in  deep  mourn 
ing. 

Jean  and  I  had  been  alone  in  our  railway 
carriage  for  a  great  part  of  the  journey;  but 
an  hour  or  two  before  we  reached  London  a 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

man  got  in  and  took  a  seat  in  a  corner.  The 
train  had  stopped  at  a  place  where  there  is  a 
beautiful  and  well-known  cemetery.  People 
bring  their  friends  from  long  distances  to  lay 
them  there.  When  one  passes  the  station,  one 
nearly  always  sees  sad  faces  and  people  in 
mourning  on  the  platform. 

There  was  more  than  one  group  there  that 
day,  and  the  man  who  sat  in  the  corner  looked 
out  at  them  with  gentle  eyes.  He  had  fine, 
deep  eyes  and  a  handsome  mouth.  When  the 
poor  woman  in  mourning  almost  stumbled  into 
the  carriage,  followed  by  her  child,  he  put  out 
his  hand  to  help  her  and  gave  her  his  seat. 
She  had  stumbled  because  her  eyes  were  dim 
with  dreadful  crying,  and  she  could  scarcely 
see.  It  made  one's  heart  stand  still  to  see  the 
wild  grief  of  her,  and  her  unconsciousness  of 
the  world  about  her.  The  world  did  not  matter. 
There  was  no  world.  I  think  there  was  nothing 
left  anywhere  but  the  grave  she  had  just  stag 
gered  blindly  away  from.  I  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  lying  sobbing  and  writhing  and  beating 
the  new  turf  on  it  with  her  poor  hands,  and  I 

somehow  knew  that  it  had  been  a  child's  grave 

so 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

she  had  been  to  visit  and  had  felt  she  left  to 
utter  loneliness  when  she  turned  away. 

It  was  because  I  thought  this  that  I  wished 
she  had  not  seemed  so  unconscious  of  and  in 
different  to  the  child  who  was  with  her  and 
clung  to  her  black  dress  as  if  it  could  not 
bear  to  let  her  go.  This  one  was  alive  at  least, 
even  if  she  had  lost  the  other  one,  and  its  little 
face  was  so  wistful!  It  did  not  seem  fan*  to 
forget  and  ignore  it,  as  if  it  were  not  there.  I 
felt  as  if  she  might  have  left  it  behind  on  the 
platform  if  it  had  not  so  clung  to  her  skirt  that  it 
was  almost  dragged  into  the  railway  carriage 
with  her.  When  she  sank  into  her  seat  she 
did  not  even  lift  the  poor  little  thing  into  the 
place  beside  her,  but  left  it  to  scramble  up  as 
best  it  could.  She  buried  her  swollen  face  in 
her  handkerchief  and  sobbed  in  a  smothered 
way  as  if  she  neither  saw,  heard,  nor  felt  any 
living  thing  near  her. 

How  I  wished  she  would  remember  the  poor 
child  and  let  it  comfort  her!  It  really  was 
trying  to  do  it  in  its  innocent  way.  It  pressed 
close  to  her  side,  it  looked  up  imploringly,  it 
kissed  her  arm  and  her  crape  veil  over  and  over 

31 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

again,  and  tried  to  attract  her  attention.  It 
was  a  little,  lily-fair  creature  not  more  than  five 
or  six  years  old  and  perhaps  too  young  to  express 
what  it  wanted  to  say.  It  could  only  cling 
to  her  and  kiss  her  black  dress,  and  seem  to  beg 
her  to  remember  that  it,  at  least,  was  a  living 
thing.  But  she  was  too  absorbed  in  her  anguish 
to  know  that  it  was  in  the  world.  She  neither 
looked  at  nor  touched  it,  and  at  last  it  sat  with 
its  cheek  against  her  sleeve,  softly  stroking  her 
arm,  and  now  and  then  kissing  it  longingly.  I 
was  obliged  to  turn  my  face  away  and  look 
out  of  the  window,  because  I  knew  the  man  with 
the  kind  face  saw  the  tears  well  up  into  my 
eyes. 

The  poor  woman  did  not  travel  far  with  us. 
She  left  the  train  after  a  few  stations  were 
passed.  Our  fellow-traveler  got  out  before  her 
to  help  her  on  to  the  platform.  He  stood  with 
bared  head  while  he  assisted  her,  but  she 
scarcely  saw  him.  And  even  then  she  seemed  to 
forget  the  child.  The  poor  thing  was  dragged 
out  by  her  dress  as  it  had  been  dragged  in. 
I  put  out  my  hand  involuntarily  as  it  went 
through  the  door,  because  I  was  afraid  it 

32 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

might  fall.  But  it  did  not.  It  turned  its  fair 
little  face  and  smiled  at  me.  When  the  kind 
traveler  returned  to  his  place  in  the  carriage 
again,  and  the  train  left  the  station,  the  black- 
draped  woman  was  walking  slowly  down  the 
platform  and  the  child  was  still  clinging  to  her 
skirt. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MY  guardian  was  a  man  whose  custom 
it  was  to  give  large  and  dignified  parties. 
Among  his  grand  and  fashionable  guests  there 
was  nearly  always  a  sprinkling  of  the  more  im 
portant  members  of  the  literary  world.  The 
night  after  I  arrived  there  was  to  be  a  par 
ticularly  notable  dinner.  I  had  come  prepared 
to  appear  at  it.  Jean  had  brought  fine  array 
for  me  and  a  case  of  jewels.  I  knew  I  must 
be  "dressed  up"  and  look  as  important  as  I 
could.  When  I  went  up-stairs  after  tea,  Jean 
was  in  my  room  laying  things  out  on  the  bed. 

"The  man  you  like  so  much  is  to  dine  here 
to-night,  Ysobel,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Hector 
MacNairn." 

I  believe  I  even  put  my  hand  suddenly  to  my 
heart  as  I  stood  and  looked  at  her,  I  was  so 
startled  and  so  glad. 

"You  must  tell  him  how  much  you  love  his 

34 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

books,"  she  said.  She  had  a  quiet,  motherly 
way. 

"There  will  be  so  many  other  people  who  will 
want  to  talk  to  him,"  I  answered,  and  I  felt 
a  little  breathless  with  excitement  as  I  said  it. 
"And  I  should  be  too  shy  to  know  how  to  say 
such  things  properly." 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  him,"  was  her  advice. 
"The  man  will  be  like  his  books,  and  they're 
the  joy  of  your  life." 

She  made  me  look  as  nice  as  she  could  in  the 
new  dress  she  had  brought;  she  made  me  wear 
the  Muircarrie  diamonds  and  sent  me  down 
stairs.  It  does  not  matter  who  the  guests  were; 
I  scarcely  remember.  I  was  taken  in  to  dinner 
by  a  stately  elderly  man  who  tried  to  make  me 
talk,  and  at  last  was  absorbed  by  the  clever 
woman  on  his  other  side. 

I  found  myself  looking  between  the  flowers  for 
a  man's  face  I  could  imagine  was  Hector 
MacXairn's.  I  looked  up  and  down  and  saw 
none  I  could  believe  belonged  to  him.  There 
were  handsome  faces  and  individual  ones,  but 
at  first  I  saw  no  Hector  MacNairn.  Then,  on 
bending  forward  a  little  to  glance  behind  an 

35 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

epergne,  I  found  a  face  which  it  surprised  and 
pleased  me  to  see.  It  was  the  face  of  the 
traveler  who  had  helped  the  woman  in  mourning 
out  of  the  railway  carriage,  baring  his  head 
before  her  grief.  I  could  not  help  turning  and 
speaking  to  my  stately  elderly  partner. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  is — the  man  at 
the  other  side  of  the  table?"  I  asked. 

Old  Lord  Armour  looked  across  and  answered 
with  an  amiable  smile.  "It  is  the  author  the 
world  is  talking  of  most  in  these  days,  and  the 
talking  is  no  new  thing.  It's  Mr.  Hector 
MacNairn." 

No  one  but  myself  could  tell  how  glad  I  was. 
It  seemed  so  right  that  he  should  be  the  man 
who  had  understood  the  deeps  of  a  poor,  passing 
stranger  woman's  woe.  I  had  so  loved  that 
quiet  baring  of  his  head!  All  at  once  I  knew 
I  should  not  be  afraid  of  him.  He  would  un 
derstand  that  I  could  not  help  being  shy,  that 
it  was  only  my  nature,  and  that  if  I  said  things 
awkwardly  my  meanings  were  better  than  my 
words.  Perhaps  I  should  be  able  to  tell  him 
something  of  what  his  books  had  been  to  me. 
I  glanced  through  the  flowers  again — and  he 

36 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

was  looking  at  me!  I  could  scarcely  believe  it 
for  a  second.  But  he  was.  His  eyes — his  won 
derful  eyes — met  mine.  I  could  not  explain 
why  they  were  wonderful.  I  think  it  was  the 
clearness  and  understanding  in  them,  and  a 
sort  of  great  interestedness.  People  sometimes 
look  at  me  from  curiosity,  but  they  do  not  look 
because  they  are  really  interested. 

I  could  scarcely  look  away,  though  I  knew 
I  must  not  be  guilty  of  staring.  A  footman 
was  presenting  a  dish  at  my  side.  I  took  some 
thing  from  it  without  knowing  what  it  was. 
Lord  Armour  began  to  talk  kindly.  He  was 
saying  beautiful,  admiring  things  of  Mr.  Mac- 
Nairn  and  his  work.  I  listened  gratefully,  and 
said  a  few  words  myself  now  and  then.  I  was 
only  too  glad  to  be  told  of  the  great  people 
and  the  small  ones  who  were  moved  and  up 
lifted  by  his  thoughts. 

"You  admire  him  very  much,  I  can  see," 
the  amiable  elderly  voice  said. 

I  could  not  help  turning  and  looking  up.  "It 
is  as  if  a  great,  great  genius  were  one's  friend — 
as  if  he  talked  and  one  listened,"  I  said.  "He  is 
like  a  splendid  dream  which  has  come  true." 

4  37 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

Old  Lord  Armour  looked  at  me  quite  thought 
fully,  as  if  he  saw  something  new  in  me. 

"That  is  a  good  way  of  putting  it,  Miss 
Muircarrie,"  he  answered.  "MacNairn  would 
like  that.  You  must  tell  him  about  it  your 
self." 

I  did  not  mean  to  glance  through  the  flowers 
again,  but  I  did  it  involuntarily.  And  I  met 
the  other  eyes — the  wonderful,  interested  ones 
just  as  I  had  met  them  before.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  he  had  been  watching  me.  It 
might  be,  I  thought,  because  he  only  vaguely 
remembered  seeing  me  before  and  was  trying  to 
recall  where  we  had  met. 

When  my  guardian  brought  his  men  guests  to 
the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  I  was  looking 
over  some  old  prints  at  a  quiet,  small  table. 
There  were  a  few  minutes  of  smiling  talk,  and 
then  Sir  Ian  crossed  the  room  toward  me,  bring 
ing  some  one  with  him.  It  was  Hector  Mac- 
Nairn  he  brought. 

"Mr.  MacNairn  tells  me  you  traveled  to 
gether  this  afternoon  without  knowing  each 
other,"  he  said.  "He  has  heard  something  of 
Muircarrie  and  would  like  to  hear  more,  Ysobel. 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

She  lives  like  a  little  ghost  all  alone  in  her 
feudal  castle,  Mr.  MacNairn.  We  can't  per 
suade  her  to  like  London." 

I  think  he  left  us  alone  together  because  he 
realized  that  we  should  get  on  better  without  a 
companion. 

Mr.  MacNairn  sat  down  near  me  and  began 
to  talk  about  Muircarrie.  There  were  very  few 
places  like  it,  and  he  knew  about  each  one  of 
them.  He  knew  the  kind  of  things  Angus 
Macayre  knew — the  things  most  people  had 
either  never  heard  of  or  had  only  thought  of  as 
legends.  He  talked  as  he  wrote,  and  I  scarcely 
knew  when  he  led  me  into  talking  also.  After 
ward  I  realized  that  he  had  asked  me  questions 
I  could  not  help  answering  because  his  eyes 
were  drawing  me  on  with  that  quiet,  deep  in 
terest.  It  seemed  as  if  he  saw  something  in 
my  face  which  made  him  curious. 

I  think  I  saw  this  expression  first  when  we 
began  to  speak  of  our  meeting  in  the  railway 
carriage,  and  I  mentioned  the  poor  little  fair 
child  my  heart  had  ached  so  for. 

"  It  was  such  a  little  thing  and  it  did  so  want 
to  comfort  her!  Its  white  little  clinging  hands 

39 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

were  so  pathetic  when  they  stroked  and  patted 
her,"  I  said.  "And  she  did  not  even  look  at  it." 

He  did  not  start,  but  he  hesitated  in  a  way 
which  almost  produced  the  effect  of  a  start. 
Long  afterward  I  remembered  it. 

"The  child!"  he  said.  "Yes.  But  I  was 
sitting  on  the  other  side.  And  I  was  so  absorbed 
in  the  poor  mother  that  I  am  afraid  I  scarcely 
saw  it.  Tell  me  about  it." 

"It  was  not  six  years  old,  poor  mite,"  I 
answered.  "It  was  one  of  those  very  fair 
children  one  sees  now  and  then.  It  was  not 
like  its  mother.  She  was  not  one  of  the 
White  People." 

"The  White  People?"  he  repeated  quite 
slowly  after  me.  "You  don't  mean  that  she 
was  not  a  Caucasian?  Perhaps  I  don't  under 
stand." 

That  made  me  feel  a  trifle  shy  again.  Of 
course  he  could  not  know  what  I  meant.  How 
silly  of  me  to  take  it  for  granted  that  he  would! 

"I  beg  pardon.  I  forgot,"  I  even  stam 
mered  a  little.  "It  is  only  my  way  of  thinking 
of  those  fair  people  one  sees,  those  very  fair 

ones,  you  know — the  ones  whose  fairness  looks 

40 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

almost  transparent.  There  are  not  many  of 
them,  of  course;  but  one  can't  help  noticing 
them  when  they  pass  in  the  street  or  come 
into  a  room.  You  must  have  noticed  them, 
too.  I  always  call  them,  to  myself,  the  White 
People,  because  they  are  different  from  the 
rest  of  us.  The  poor  mother  wasn't  one,  but 
the  child  was.  Perhaps  that  was  why  I  looked 
at  it,  at  first.  It  was  such  a  lovely  little  thing; 
and  the  whiteness  made  it  look  delicate,  and  I 
could  not  help  thinking — "  I  hesitated,  be 
cause  it  seemed  almost  unkind  to  finish. 

"You  thought  that  if  she  had  just  lost  one 
child  she  ought  to  take  more  care  of  the  other," 
he  ended  for  me.  There  was  a  deep  thought- 
fulness  in  his  look,  as  if  he  were  watching  me. 
I  wondered  why. 

"I  wish  I  had  paid  more  attention  to  the 
little  creature,"  he  said,  very  gently.  "Did 
it  cry?" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "It  only  clung  to  her  and 
patted  her  black  sleeve  and  kissed  it,  as  if  it 
wanted  to  comfort  her.  I  kept  expecting  it  to 
cry,  but  it  didn't.  It  made  me  cry  because  it 
seemed  so  sure  that  it  could  comfort  her  if  she 

41 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

would  only  remember  that  it  was  alive  and  loved 
her.  I  wish,  I  wish  death  did  not  make  people 
feel  as  if  it  filled  all  the  world — as  if,  when  it 
happens,  there  is  no  life  left  anywhere.  The 
child  who  was  alive  by  her  side  did  not  seem  a 
living  thing  to  her.  It  didn't  matter." 

I  had  never  said  as  much  to  any  one  before, 
but  his  watching  eyes  made  me  forget  my  shy 
worldlessness. 

"What  do  you  feel  about  it— death?"  he 
asked. 

The  low  gentleness  of  his  voice  seemed  some 
thing  I  had  known  always. 

"I  never  saw  it,"  I  answered.  "I  have  never 
even  seen  any  one  dangerously  ill.  I—  It  is  as 
if  I  can't  believe  it." 

"You  can't  believe  it?  That  is  a  wonderful 
thing,"  he  said,  even  more  quietly  than  before. 
"If  none  of  us  believed,  how  wonderful  that 
would  be!  Beautiful,  too." 

"How  that  poor  mother  believed  it!"  I  said, 
remembering  her  swollen,  distorted,  sobbing 
face.  "She  believed  nothing  else;  everything 
else  was  gone." 

"I  wonder  what  would  have  happened  if  you 

42 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

had  spoken  to  her  about  the  child?"  he  said, 
slowly,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  imagine  it. 

"I'm  a  very  shy  person.  I  should  never  have 
courage  to  speak  to  a  stranger,"  I  answered. 
"  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  coward,  too.  She  might  have 
thought  me  interfering." 

"She  might  not  have  understood,"  he  mur 
mured. 

"It  was  clinging  to  her  dress  when  she  walked 
away  down  the  platform,"  I  went  on.  "I  dare 
say  you  noticed  it  then?" 

"Not  as  you  did.  I  wish  I  had  noticed  it 
more,"  was  his  answer.  "Poor  little  White 
One!" 

That  led  us  into  our  talk  about  the  White 
People.  He  said  he  did  not  think  he  was 
exactly  an  observant  person  in  some  respects. 
Remembering  his  books,  which  seemed  to  me 
the  work  of  a  man  who  saw  and  understood 
everything  in  the  world,  I  could  not  compre 
hend  his  thinking  that,  and  I  told  him  so. 
But  he  replied  that  what  I  had  said  about  my 
White  People  made  him  feel  that  he  must  be 
abstracted  sometimes  and  miss  things.  He 
did  not  remember  having  noticed  the  rare  f air- 

43 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

ness  I  had  seen.  He  smiled  as  he  said  it, 
because,  of  course,  it  was  only  a  little  thing — 
that  he  had  not  seen  that  some  people  were  so 
much  fairer  than  others. 

"But  it  has  not  been  a  little  thing  to  you, 
evidently.  That  is  why  I  am  even  rather  curi 
ous  about  it,"  he  explained.  "It  is  a  difference 
definite  enough  to  make  you  speak  almost  as 
if  they  were  of  a  different  race  from  ours." 

I  sat  silent  a  few  seconds,  thinking  it  over. 
Suddenly  I  realized  what  I  had  never  realized 
before. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  said,  as  slowly  as  he  him 
self  had  spoken,  "I  did  not  know  that  was  true 
until  you  put  it  into  words.  I  am  so  used  to 
thinking  of  them  as  different,  somehow,  that  I 
suppose  I  do  feel  as  if  they  were  almost  like  an 
other  race,  in  a  way.  Perhaps  one  would  feel 
like  that  with  a  native  Indian,  or  a  Japanese." 

"I  dare  say  that  is  a  good  simile,"  he  re 
flected.  "Are  they  different  when  you  know 
them  well?" 

"I  have  never  known  one  but  Wee  Brown 
Elspeth,"  I  answered,  thinking  it  over. 

He  did  start  then,   in  the  strangest  way. 

44 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"What!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  did  you 
say?" 

I  was  quite  startled  myself.  Suddenly  he 
looked  pale,  and  his  breath  caught  itself. 

"I  said  Wee  Elspeth,  Wee  Brown  Elspeth. 
She  was  only  a  child  who  played  with  me,"  I 
stammered,  "when  I  was  little." 

He  pulled  himself  together  almost  instantly, 
though  the  color  did  not  come  back  to  his  face 
at  once  and  his  voice  was  not  steady  for  a  few 
seconds.  But  he  laughed  outright  at  himself. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  apologized.  "I 
have  been  ill  and  am  rather  nervous.  I  thought 
you  said  something  you  could  not  possibly  have 
said.  I  almost  frightened  you.  And  you  were 
only  speaking  of  a  little  playmate.  Please  go 


on." 


"I  was  only  going  to  say  that  she  was  fair 
like  that,  fairer  than  any  one  I  had  ever  seen; 
but  when  we  played  together  she  seemed  like 
any  other  child.  She  was  the  first  I  ever  knew." 

I  told  him  about  the  misty  day  on  the  moor, 
and  about  the  pale  troopers  and  the  big,  lean 
leader  who  carried  Elspeth  before  him  on  his 
saddle.  I  had  never  talked  to  any  one  about 

45 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

it  before,  not  even  to  Jean  Braidfute.  But  he 
seemed  to  be  so  interested,  as  if  the  little  story 
quite  fascinated  him.  It  was  only  an  episode, 
but  it  brought  in  the  weirdness  of  the  moor  and 
my  childish  fancies  about  the  things  hiding  in 
the  white  mist,  and  the  castle  frowning  on  its 
rock,  and  my  baby  face  pressed  against  the 
nursery  window  in  the  tower,  and  Angus  and  the 
library,  and  Jean  and  her  goodness  and  wise 
ways.  It  was  dreadful  to  talk  so  much  about 
oneself.  But  he  listened  so.  His  eyes  never 
left  my  face — they  watched  and  held  me  as  if  he 
were  enthralled.  Sometimes  he  asked  a  ques 
tion. 

"I  wonder  who  they  were — the  horsemen?" 
he  pondered.  "Did  you  ever  ask  Wee  Elspeth?" 

"We  were  both  too  little  to  care.  We  only 
played,"  I  answered  him.  "And  they  came 
and  went  so  quickly  that  they  were  only  a  sort 
of  dream." 

"They  seem  to  have  been  a  strange  lot. 
Wasn't  Angus  curious  about  them?"  he  sug 
gested. 

"Angus  never  was  curious  about  anything," 
I  said.  "Perhaps  he  knew  something  about 

46 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

them  and  would  not  tell  me.  When  I  was  a 
little  thing  I  always  knew  he  and  Jean  had 
secrets  I  was  too  young  to  hear.  They  hid  sad 
and  ugly  things  from  me,  or  things  that  might 
frighten  a  child.  They  were  very  good." 

"Yes,  they  were  good,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 

I  think  any  one  would  have  been  pleased  to 
find  herself  talking  quietly  to  a  great  genius — 
as  quietly  as  if  he  were  quite  an  ordinary  person; 
but  to  me  the  experience  was  wonderful.  I  had 
thought  about  him  so  much  and  with  such  ador 
ing  reverence.  And  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he 
truly  liked  me,  even  as  if  I  were  something 
new — a  sort  of  disco  very  which  interested  him. 
I  dare  say  that  he  had  never  before  seen  a  girl 
who  had  lived  so  much  alone  and  in  such  a 
remote  and  wild  place. 

I  believe  Sir  Ian  and  his  wife  were  pleased, 
too,  to  see  that  I  was  talking.  They  were  glad 
that  their  guests  should  see  that  I  was  intelligent 
enough  to  hold  the  attention  even  of  a  clever 
man.  If  Hector  MacNairn  was  interested  in 
me  I  could  not  be  as  silly  and  dull  as  I  looked. 
But  on  my  part  I  was  only  full  of  wonder  and 

happiness.     I  was  a  girl,  and  he  had  been  my 

47 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

only  hero;  and  it  seemed  even  as  if  he  liked 
me  and  cared  about  my  queer  life. 

He  was  not  a  man  who  had  the  air  of  making 
confidences  or  talking  about  himself,  but  before 
we  parted  I  seemed  to  know  him  and  his  sur 
roundings  as  if  he  had  described  them.  A  mere 
phrase  of  his  would  make  a  picture.  Such  a 
few  words  made  his  mother  quite  clear  to  me. 
They  loved  each  other  in  an  exquisite,  intimate 
way.  She  was  a  beautiful  person.  Artists  had 
always  painted  her.  He  and  she  were  com 
pletely  happy  when  they  were  together.  They 
lived  in  a  house  in  the  country,  and  I  could  not 
at  all  tell  how  I  discovered  that  it  was  an  old 
house  with  beautiful  chimneys  and  a  very  big 
garden  with  curious  high  walls  with  corner 
towers  round  it.  He  only  spoke  of  it  briefly, 
but  I  saw  it  as  a  picture;  and  always  afterward, 
when  I  thought  of  his  mother,  I  thought  of  her 
as  sitting  under  a  great  and  ancient  apple-tree 
with  the  long,  late-afternoon  shadows  stretching 
on  the  thick,  green  grass.  I  suppose  I  saw 
that  just  because  he  said: 

"Will  you  come  to  tea  under  the  big  apple- 
tree  some  afternoon  when  the  late  shadows 

48 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

are  like  velvet  on  the  grass?  That  is  perhaps 
the  loveliest  time." 

When  we  rose  to  go  and  join  the  rest  of  the 
party,  he  stood  a  moment  and  glanced  round  the 
room  at  our  fellow-guests. 

"Are  there  any  of  your  White  People  here 
to-night?"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  shall  begin  to 
look  for  them  everywhere." 

I  glanced  over  the  faces  carelessly.  "There 
are  none  here  to-night,"  I  answered,  and  then  I 
flushed  because  he  had  smiled.  "It  was  only  a 
childish  name  I  gave  them,"  I  hesitated.  "I 
forgot  you  wouldn't  understand.  I  dare  say  it 
sounds  silly." 

He  looked  at  me  so  quickly. 

"No!  no!  no !"  he  exclaimed.  "You  mustn't 
think  that!  Certainly  not  silly." 

I  do  not  think  he  knew  that  he  put  out  his 
hand  and  gently  touched  my  arm,  as  one  might 
touch  a  child  to  make  it  feel  one  wanted  it  to 
listen. 

"You  don't  know,"  he  said  in  his  low,  slow 
voice,  "how  glad  I  am  that  you  have  talked  to 
me.  Sir  Ian  said  you  were  not  fond  of  talking 
to  people,  and  I  wanted  to  know  you." 

49 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"You  care  about  places  like  Muircarrie. 
That  is  why,"  I  answered,  feeling  at  once  how 
much  he  understood.  "I  care  for  Muircarrie 
more  than  for  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  And  I 
suppose  you  saw  it  in  my  face.  I  dare  say  that 
the  people  who  love  that  kind  of  life  cannot  help 
seeing  it  there." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  in  your  eyes.  It  was 
what  I  saw  and  found  myself  wondering  about 
when  I  watched  you  in  the  train.  It  was  really 
the  moor  and  the  mist  and  the  things  you  think 
are  hidden  in  it." 

"Did  you  watch  me?"  I  asked.  "I  could  not 
help  watching  you  a  little,  when  you  were  so 
kind  to  the  poor  woman.  I  was  afraid  you 
would  see  me  and  think  me  rude." 

"It  was  the  far  look  in  your  face  I  watched," 
he  said.  "If  you  will  come  to  tea  under  the 
big  apple-tree  I  will  tell  you  more  about  it." 

"Indeed  I  will  come,"  I  answered.  "Now 
we  must  go  and  sit  among  the  other  people — • 
those  who  don't  care  about  Muircarrie  at  all." 


CHAPTER  V 

1WENT  to  tea  under  the  big  apple-tree.  It 
was  very  big  and  old  and  wonderful.  No 
wonder  Mr.  MacNairn  and  his  mother  loved  it. 
Its  great  branches  spread  out  farther  than  I 
had  ever  seen  the  branches  of  an  apple-tree 
spread  before.  They  were  gnarled  and  knotted 
and  beautiful  with  age.  Their  shadows  upon 
the  grass  were  velvet,  deep  and  soft.  Such  a 
tree  could  only  have  lived  its  life  in  such  a 
garden.  At  least  it  seemed  so  to  me.  The 
high,  dim-colored  walls,  with  their  curious, 
low  corner  towers  and  the  leafage  of  the  wall 
fruits  spread  against  their  brick,  inclosed  it 
embracingly,  as  if  they  were  there  to  take  care 
of  it  and  its  beauty.  But  the  tree  itself  seemed 
to  have  grown  there  in  all  its  dignified  loveliness 
of  shadow  to  take  care  of  Mrs.  MacNairn,  who 
sat  under  it.  I  felt  as  if  it  loved  and  was  proud 
of  her. 

51 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

I  have  heard  clever  literary  people  speak  of 
Mrs.  MacNairn  as  a  "survival  of  type."  Some 
times  clever  people  bewilder  me  by  the  terms 
they  use,  but  I  thought  I  understood  what  they 
meant  in  her  case.  She  was  quite  unlike  the 
modern  elderly  woman,  and  yet  she  was  not  in 
the  least  old-fashioned  or  demodee.  She  was 
only  exquisitely  distinct. 

When  she  rose  from  her  chair  under  the 
apple-tree  boughs  and  came  forward  to  meet  me 
that  afternoon,  the  first  things  which  struck  me 
were  her  height  and  slenderness  and  her  light 
step.  Then  I  saw  that  her  clear  profile  seemed 
cut  out  of  ivory  and  that  her  head  was  a  beau 
tiful  shape  and  was  beautifully  set.  Its  every 
turn  and  movement  was  exquisite.  The  mere 
fact  that  both  her  long,  ivory  hands  enfolded 
mine  thrilled  me.  I  wondered  if  it  were  possible 
that  she  could  be  unaware  of  her  loveliness. 
Beautiful  people  are  thrilling  to  me,  and  Mrs. 
MacNairn  has  always  seemed  more  so  than  any 
one  else.  This  is  what  her  son  once  said  of  her : 

"She  is  not  merely  beautiful;  she  is  Beauty — 
Beauty's  very  spirit  moving  about  among  us 
mortals;  pure  Beauty." 

52 


4     : 


FELT  AS  IF   SHE  WERE   GLAD 
THAT  I   HAD   COME 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

She  drew  me  to  a  chair  under  her  tree,  and 
we  sat  down  together.  I  felt  as  if  she  were  glad 
that  I  had  come.  The  watching  look  I  had  seen 
in  her  son's  eyes  was  in  hers  also.  They  watched 
me  as  we  talked,  and  I  found  myself  telling  her 
about  my  home  as  I  had  found  myself  telling- 
him.  He  had  evidently  talked  to  her  about  it 
himself.  I  had  never  met  any  one  who  thought 
of  Muircarrie  as  I  did,  but  it  seemed  as  if  they 
who  were  strangers  were  drawn  by  its  wild* 
beautiful  loneliness  as  I  was. 

I  was  happy.  In  my  secret  heart  I  began  to 
ask  myself  if  it  could  be  true  that  they  made  me 
feel  a  little  as  if  I  somehow  belonged  to  some  one. 
I  had  always  seemed  so  detached  from  every 
one.  I  had  not  been  miserable  about  it,  and  I 
had  not  complained  to  myself;  I  only  accepted 
the  detachment  as  part  of  my  kind  of  life. 

Mr.  MacNairn  came  into  the  garden  later 
and  several  other  people  came  in  to  tea.  It  was 
apparently  a  sort  of  daily  custom — that  people 
who  evidently  adored  Mrs.  MacNairn  dropped 
in  to  see  and  talk  to  her  every  afternoon.  She 
talked  wonderfully,  and  her  friends'  joy  in  her 
was  wonderful,  too.  It  evidently  made  people 

5  53 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

happy  to  be  near  her.  All  she  said  and  did 
was  like  her  light  step  and  the  movements  of 
her  delicate,  fine  head — gracious  and  soft  and 
arrestingly  lovely.  She  did  not  let  me  drift 
away  and  sit  in  a  corner  looking  on,  as  I  usually 
did  among  strangers.  She  kept  me  near  her, 
and  in  some  subtle,  gentle  way  made  me  a  part 
of  all  that  was  happening — the  talk,  the  charm 
ing  circle  under  the  spreading  boughs  of  the 
apple-tree,  the  charm  of  everything.  Some 
times  she  would  put  out  her  exquisite,  long- 
fingered  hand  and  touch  me  very  lightly,  and 
each  time  she  did  it  I  felt  as  if  she  had  given 
me  new  life. 

There  was  an  interesting  elderly  man  who 
came  among  the  rest  of  the  guests.  I  was  in 
terested  in  him  even  before  she  spoke  to  me  of 
him.  He  had  a  handsome,  aquiline  face  which 
looked  very  clever.  His  talk  was  brilliantly 
witty.  When  he  spoke  people  paused  as  if  they 
could  not  bear  to  lose  a  phrase  or  even  a  word. 
But  in  the  midst  of  the  trills  of  laughter  sur 
rounding  him  his  eyes  were  unchangingly  sad. 
His  face  laughed  or  smiled,  but  his  eyes  never. 

"He  is  the  greatest  artist  in  England  and  the 

54 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

most  brilliant  man,"  Mrs.  MacNairn  said  to  me, 
quietly.  "But  he  is  the  saddest,  too.  He  had 
a  lovely  daughter  who  was  killed  instantly,  in 
his  presence,  by  a  fall.  They  had  been  in 
separable  companions  and  she  was  the  delight 
of  his  life.  That  strange,  fixed  look  has  been  in 
his  eyes  ever  since.  I  know  you  have  noticed 
it." 

We  were  walking  about  among  the  flower 
beds  after  tea,  and  Mr.  MacNairn  was  showing 
me  a  cloud  of  blue  larkspurs  in  a  corner  when  I 
saw  something  which  made  me  turn  toward 
him  rather  quickly. 

"There  is  one!"  I  said.  "Do  look  at  her! 
Now  you  see  what  I  mean!  The  girl  standing 
with  her  hand  on  Mr.  Le  Breton's  arm." 

Mr.  Le  Breton  was  the  brilliant  man  with  the 
sad  eyes.  He  was  standing  looking  at  a  mass 
of  white-and-purple  iris  at  the  other  side  of  the 
garden.  There  were  two  or  three  people  with 
him,  but  it  seemed  as  if  for  a  moment  he  had 
forgotten  them — had  forgotten  where  he  was. 
I  wondered  suddenly  if  his  daughter  had  been 
fond  of  irises.  He  was  looking  at  them  with 
such  a  tender,  lost  expression.  The  girl,  who 

55 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

was  a  lovely,  fair  thing,  was  standing  quite  close 
to  him  with  her  hand  in  his  arm,  and  she  was 
smiling,  too — such  a  smile! 

"Mr.  Le  Breton!"  Mr.  MacNairn  said  in  a 
rather  startled  tone.  "  The  girl  with  her  hand  in 
his  arm?" 

"Yes.  You  see  how  fair  she  is,"  I  answered. 
"And  she  has  that  transparent  look.  It  is  so 
lovely.  Don't  you  think  so?  She  is  one  of  the 
White  People." 

He  stood  very  still,  looking  across  the  flowers 
at  the  group.  There  was  a  singular  interest  and 
intensity  in  his  expression.  He  watched  the 
pair  silently  for  a  whole  minute,  I  think. 

"  Ye-es,"  he  said,  slowly,  at  last, "  I  do  see  what 
you  mean — and  it  is  lovely.  I  don't  seem  to 
know  her  well.  She  must  be  a  new  friend  of  my 
mother's.  So  she  is  one  of  the  White  People?" 

"She  looks  like  a  white  iris  herself,  doesn't 
she?"  I  said.  "Now  you  know." 

"Yes;  now  I  know,"  he  answered. 

I  asked  Mrs.  MacNairn  later  who  the  girl  was, 
but  she  didn't  seem  to  recognize  my  description 
of  her.  Mr.  Le  Breton  had  gone  away  by  that 
time,  and  so  had  the  girl  herself. 

56 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"The  tall,  very  fair  one  in  the  misty,  pale- 
gray  dress,"  I  said.  "She  was  near  Mr.  Le 
Breton  when  he  was  looking  at  the  iris-bed. 
You  were  cutting  some  roses  only  a  few  yards 
away  from  her.  That  very  fair  girl?" 

Mrs.  MacNairn  oaused  a  moment  and  looked 
puzzled. 

"Mildred  Keith  is  fair,"  she  reflected,  "but 
she  was  not  there  then.  I  don't  recall  seeing 
a  girl.  I  was  cutting  some  buds  for  Mrs. 
Anstruther.  I—  '  She  paused  again  and  turned 
toward  her  son,  who  was  standing  watching 
us.  I  saw  their  eyes  meet  in  a  rather  ar 
rested  way. 

"  It  was  not  Mildred  Keith,"  he  said.  "  Miss 
Muircarrie  is  inquiring  because  this  girl  was  one 
of  those  she  calls  the  White  People.  She  was 
not  any  one  I  had  seen  here  before." 

There  was  a  second's  silence  before  Mrs. 
MacNairn  smilingly  gave  me  one  of  her  light, 
thrilling  touches  on  my  arm. 

"Ah!  I  remember,"  she  said.  "Hector  told 
me  about  the  \Vhite  People.  He  rather  fancied 
I  might  be  one." 

I  am  afraid  I  rather  stared  at  her  as  I  slowly 

57 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

shook  my  head.    You  see  she  was  almost  one, 
but  not  quite. 

"I  was  so  busy  with  my  roses  that  I  did  not 
notice  who  was  standing  near  Mr.  Le  Breton," 
she  said.  "Perhaps  it  was  Anabel  Mere.  She 
is  a  more  transparent  sort  of  girl  than  Mildred, 
and  she  is  more  blond.  And  you  don't  know 
her,  Hector?  I  dare  say  it  was  she." 


CHAPTER  VI 

I  REMAINED  in  London  several  weeks.  I 
stayed  because  the  MacNairns  were  so  good 
to  me.  I  could  not  have  told  any  one  how  I 
loved  Mrs.  MacNairn,  and  how  different  every 
thing  seemed  when  I  was  with  her.  I  was  never 
shy  when  we  were  together.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  such  thing  as  shyness  in  the  world.  I 
was  not  shy  with  Mr.  MacNairn,  either.  After 
I  had  sat  under  the  big  apple-tree  boughs  in  the 
walled  garden  a  few  times  I  realized  that  I  had 
begun  to  belong  to  somebody.  Those  two 
marvelous  people  cared  for  me  in  that  way— 
in  a  way  that  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  a  real 
girl,  not  merely  a  queer  little  awkward  ghost 
in  a  far-away  castle  which  nobody  wanted  to 
visit  because  it  was  so  dull  and  desolate  and  far 
from  London.  They  were  so  clever,  and  knew 
all  the  interesting  things  in  the  world,  but 

59 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

their  cleverness  and  experience  never  bewildered 
or  overwhelmed  me. 

"You  were  born  a  wonderful  little  creature, 
and  Angus  Macayre  has  filled  your  mind  with 
strange,  rich  furnishings  and  marvelous  color 
and  form,"  Mrs.  MacNairn  actually  said  to  me 
one  day  when  we  were  sitting  together  and  she 
was  holding  my  hand  and  softly,  slowly  patting 
it.  She  had  a  way  of  doing  that,  and  she 
had  also  a  way  of  keeping  me  very  near  her 
whenever  she  could.  She  said  once  that  she 
liked  to  touch  me  now  and  then  to  make  sure 
that  I  was  quite  real  and  would  not  melt  away. 
I  did  not  know  then  why  she  said  it,  but  I 
understood  afterward. 

Sometimes  we  sat  under  the  apple-tree  until 
the  long  twilight  deepened  into  shadow,  which 
closed  round  us,  and  a  nightingale  that  lived  in 
the  garden  began  to  sing.  We  all  three  loved 
the  nightingale,  and  felt  as  though  it  knew 
that  we  were  listening  to  it.  It  is  a  wonderful 
thing  to  sit  quite  still  listening  to  a  bird  singing 
in  the  dark,  and  to  dare  to  feel  that  while  it 
sings  it  knows  how  your  soul  adores  it.  It  is 
like  a  kind  of  worship. 

60 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

We  had  been  sitting  listening  for  quite  a  long 
time,  and  the  nightingale  had  just  ceased  and 
left  the  darkness  an  exquisite  silence  which  fell 
suddenly  but  softly  as  the  last  note  dropped, 
when  Mrs.  MacNairn  began  to  talk  for  the 
first  time  of  what  she  called  The  Fear. 

I  don't  remember  just  how  she  began,  and 
for  a  few  minutes  I  did  not  quite  understand 
what  she  meant.  But  as  she  went  on,  and  Mr. 
MacNairn  joined  in  the  talk,  their  meaning 
became  a  clear  thing  to  me,  and  I  knew  that 
they  were  only  talking  quite  simply  of  some 
thing  they  had  often  talked  of  before.  They 
were  not  as  afraid  of  The  Fear  as  most  people 
are,  because  they  had  thought  of  and  reasoned 
about  it  so  much,  and  always  calmly  and  with 
clear  and  open  minds. 

By  The  Fear  they  meant  that  mysterious 
horror  most  people  feel  at  the  thought  of  passing 
out  of  the  world  they  know  into  the  one  they 
don't  know  at  all. 

How  quiet,  how  still  it  was  inside  the  walls  of 
the  old  garden,  as  we  three  sat  under  the 
boughs  and  talked  about  it!  And  what  sweet 
night  scents  of  leaves  and  sleeping  flowers  were 

61 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

in  every  breath  we  drew!  And  how  one's 
heart  moved  and  lifted  when  the  nightingale 
broke  out  again! 

"If  one  had  seen  or  heard  one  little  thing, 
if  one's  mortal  being  could  catch  one  glimpse  of 
light  in  the  dark,"  Mrs.  MacNairn's  low  voice 
said  out  of  the  shadow  near  me,  "The  Fear 
would  be  gone  forever." 

"Perhaps  the  whole  mystery  is  as  simple  as 
this,"  said  her  son's  voice — "as  simple  as  this: 
that  as  there  are  tones  of  music  too  fine  to  be 
registered  by  the  human  ear,  so  there  may  be 
vibrations  of  light  not  to  be  seen  by  the  human 
eye;  form  and  color  as  well  as  sounds;  just 
beyond  earthly  perception,  and  yet  as  real  as 
ourselves,  as  formed  as  ourselves,  only  existing 
in  that  other  dimension." 

There  was  an  intenseness  which  was  almost 
a  note  of  anguish  in  Mrs.  MacNairn's  answer, 
even  though  her  voice  was  very  low.  I  in 
voluntarily  turned  my  head  to  look  at  her, 
though  of  course  it  was  too  dark  to  see  her  face, 
I  felt  somehow  as  if  her  hands  were  wrung 
together  in  her  lap. 

"Oh!"   she   said,    "if   one   only   had   some 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

shadow  of  a  proof  that  the  mystery  is  only  that 
we  cannot  see,  that  we  cannot  hear,  though  they 
are  really  quite  near  us,  with  us — the  ones  who 
seem  to  have  gone  away  and  whom  we  feel  we 
cannot  live  without.  If  once  we  could  be  sure! 
There  would  be  no  Fear — there  would  be  none!" 

"Dearest"— he  often  called  her  "Dearest," 
and  his  voice  had  a  wonderful  sound  in  the 
darkness;  it  was  caress  and  strength,  and  it 
seemed  to  speak  to  her  of  things  they  knew 
which  I  did  not — "we  have  vowed  to  each  other 
that  we  will  believe  there  is  no  reason  for  The 
Fear.  It  was  a  vow  between  us." 

"Yes!  Yes!"  she  cried,  breathlessly;  "but 
sometimes,  Hector — sometimes — " 

"Miss  Muircarrie  does  not  feel  it — " 

"Please  say  'Ysobel'!"  I  broke  in.  "Please 
do." 

He  went  on  as  quietly  as  if  he  had  not  even 
paused : 

"Ysobel  told  me  the  first  night  we  met  that 
it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  believe  in  it." 

"It  never  seems  real  to  me  at  all,"  I  said. 
"Perhaps  that  is  because  I  can  never  forget 
what  Jean  told  me  about  my  mother  lying  still 

63 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

upon  her  bed,  and  listening  to  some  one  calling 
her."  (I  had  told  them  Jean's  story  a  few 
days  before.)  "I  knew  it  was  my  father;  Jean 
knew,  too." 

"How  did  you  know?"  Mrs.  MacNairn's 
voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 

"I  could  not  tell  you  that.  I  never  asked 
myself  how  it  was.  But  I  knew.  We  both 
knew.  Perhaps" — I  hesitated — "it  was  be 
cause  in  the  Highlands  people  often  believe 
things  like  that.  One  hears  so  many  stories  all 
one's  life  that  in  the  end  they  don't  seem 
strange.  I  have  always  heard  them.  Those 
things  you  know  about  people  who  have  the 
second  sight.  And  about  the  seals  who  change 
themselves  into  men  and  come  on  shore  and 
fall  in  love  with  girls  and  marry  them.  They 
say  they  go  away  now  and  then,  and  no  one 
really  knows  where — but  it  is  believed  that  they 
go  back  to  their  own  people  and  change  into 
seals  again,  because  they  must  plunge  and  riot 
about  in  the  sea.  Sometimes  they  come  home, 
but  sometimes  they  do  not. 

"A  beautiful  young  stranger,  with  soft,  dark 
eyes,  appeared  once  not  far  from  Muircarrie, 

64 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

and  he  married  a  boatman's  daughter.  He  was 
very  restless  one  night,  and  got  up  and  left  her, 
and  she  never  saw  him  again;  but  a  few  days 
later  a  splendid  dead  seal  covered  with  wounds 
was  washed  up  near  his  cottage.  The  fishers 
say  that  his  people  had  wanted  to  keep  him 
from  his  land  wife,  and  they  had  fought  with 
him  and  killed  him.  His  wife  had  a  son  with 
strange,  velvet  eyes  like  his  father's,  and  she 
couldn't  keep  him  away  from  the  water.  When 
he  was  old  enough  to  swim  he  swam  out  one 
day,  because  he  thought  he  saw  some  seals 
and  wanted  to  get  near  them.  He  swam  out 
too  far,  perhaps.  He  never  came  back,  and  the 
fishermen  said  his  father's  people  had  taken 
him.  WTien  one  has  heard  stories  like  that  all 
one's  life  nothing  seems  very  strange." 

"Nothing  really  is  strange,"  said  Hector 
MacNairn.  "Again  and  again  through  all  the 
ages  we  have  been  told  the  secrets  of  the  gods 
and  the  wonders  of  the  Law,  and  we  have 
revered  and  echoed  but  never  believed.  WTien 
we  believe  and  know  all  is  simple  we  shall  not 
be  afraid.  You  are  not  afraid,  Ysobel.  Tell 
my  mother  you  are  not." 

65 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

I  turned  my  face  toward  her  again  in  the 
darkness.  I  felt  as  if  something  was  going  on 
between  them  which  he  somehow  knew  I  could 
help  them  in.  It  was  as  though  he  were  calling 
on  something  in  my  nature  which  I  did  not 
myself  comprehend,  but  which  his  profound 
mind  saw  and  knew  was  stronger  than  I  was. 

Suddenly  I  felt  as  if  I  might  trust  to  him  and 
to  It,  and  that,  without  being  troubled  or 
anxious,  I  would  just  say  the  first  thing  which 
came  into  my  mind,  because  it  would  be  put 
there  for  me  by  some  power  which  could 
dictate  to  me.  I  never  felt  younger  or  less 
clever  than  I  did  at  that  moment;  I  was  only 
Ysobel  Muircarrie,  who  knew  almost  nothing. 
But  that  did  not  seem  to  matter.  It  was  such 
a  simple,  almost  childish  thing  I  told  her.  It 
was  only  about  The  Dream. 


CHAPTER 


feeling  you  call  The  Fear  has  never 
X  come  to  me,"  I  said  to  her.  "And  if  it 
had  I  think  it  would  have  melted  away  because 
of  a  dream  I  once  had.  I  don't  really  believe  it 
was  a  dream,  but  I  call  it  one.  I  think  I  really 
went  somewhere  and  came  back.  I  often  won 
der  why  I  came  back.  It  was  only  a  short 
dream,  so  simple  that  there  is  scarcely  anything 
to  tell,  and  perhaps  it  will  not  convey  anything 
to  you.  But  it  has  been  part  of  my  life  —  that 
time  when  I  was  Out  on  the  Hillside.  That  is 
what  I  call  The  Dream  to  myself,  'Out  on  the 
Hillside/  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of  unearthly  poem. 
But  it  wasn't.  It  was  more  real  than  anything 
I  have  ever  felt.  It  was  real  —  real!  I  wish 
that  I  could  tell  it  so  that  you  would  know 
how  real  it  was." 

I  felt  almost  piteous  in  my  longing  to  make 
her  know.     I  knew  she  was  afraid  of  something, 

67 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

and  if  I  could  make  her  know  how  real  that  one 
brief  dream  had  been  she  would  not  be  afraid 
any  more.  And  I  loved  her,  I  loved  her  so 
much! 

"I  was  asleep  one  night  at  Muircarrie,"  I 
went  on,  "and  suddenly,  without  any  prepara 
tory  dreaming,  I  was  standing  out  on  a  hillside 
in  moonlight  softer  and  more  exquisite  than  I 
had  ever  seen  or  known  before.  Perhaps  I 
was  still  in  my  nightgown — I  don't  know.  My 
feet  were  bare  on  the  grass,  and  I  wore  something 
light  and  white  which  did  not  seem  to  touch 
me.  If  it  touched  me  I  did  not  feel  it.  My 
bare  feet  did  not  feel  the  grass;  they  only  knew 
it  was  beneath  them. 

"It  was  a  low  hill  I  stood  on,  and  I  was  only 
on  the  side  of  it.  And  in  spite  of  the  thrilling 
beauty  of  the  moon,  all  but  the  part  I  stood  on 
melted  into  soft,  beautiful  shadow,  all  below 
me  and  above  me.  But  I  did  not  turn  to  look 
at  or  ask  myself  about  anything.  You  see  the 
difficulty  is  that  there  are  no  earthly  words  to 
tell  it!  All  my  being  was  ecstasy — pure,  light 
ecstasy !  Oh,  what  poor  words —  But  I  know 
no  others.  If  I  said  that  I  was  happy — happy! 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

— it  would  be  nothing.  I  was  happiness  itself, 
I  was  pure  rapture!  I  did  not  look  at  the 
beauty  of  the  night,  the  sky,  the  marvelous 
melting  shadow.  I  was  part  of  it  all,  one  with 
it.  Nothing  held  me — nothing!  The  beauty 
of  the  night,  the  light,  the  air  were  what  I  was, 
and  I  was  only  thrilling  ecstasy  and  wonder  at 
the  rapture  of  it." 

I  stopped  and  covered  my  face  with  my 
hands,  and  tears  wet  my  fingers. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  make  it  real !  I  was  only  there 
such  a  short,  short  time.  Even  if  you  had  been 
with  me  I  could  not  have  found  words  for  it, 
even  then.  It  was  such  a  short  time.  I  only 
stood  and  lifted  my  face  and  felt  the  joy  of  it, 
the  pure  marvel  of  joy.  I  only  heard  myself 
murmuring  over  and  over  again:  'Oh,  how 
beautiful!  how  beautiful!  Oh,  how  beautiful!' 

"And  then  a  marvel  of  new  joy  swept  through 
me.  I  said,  very  softly  and  very  slowly,  as  if 
my  voice  were  trailing  away  into  silence: 
4  Oh  -  h !  I — can — lie — down — here — on — the— 
grass — and — sleep  .  .  .  all — through — the— 
night — under — this — moonlight.  ...  I  can  sleep 
— sleep — ' 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"I  began  to  sink  softly  down,  with  the 
heavenliest  feeling  of  relaxation  and  repose,  as 
if  there  existed  only  the  soul  of  beautiful  rest. 
I  sank  so  softly — and  just  as  my  cheek  almost 
touched  the  grass  the  dream  was  over!" 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  MacNairn.  "Did  you 
awaken?" 

"No.  I  came  back.  In  my  sleep  I  suddenly 
found  myself  creeping  into  my  bed  again 
as  if  I  had  been  away  somewhere.  I  was 
wondering  why  I  was  there,  how  I  had  left  the 
hillside,  when  I  had  left  it.  That  part  was  a 
dream — but  the  other  was  not.  I  was  allowed 
to  go  somewhere — outside — and  come  back.  ' 

I  caught  at  her  hand  in  the  dark. 

"The  words  are  all  wrong,"  I  said.  "It  is 
because  we  have  no  words  to  describe  that.  But 
have  I  made  you  feel  it  at  all?  Oh!  Mrs. 
MacNairn,  have  I  been  able  to  make  you  know 
that  it  was  not  a  dream?" 

She  lifted  my  hand  and  pressed  it  passion 
ately  against  her  cheek,  and  her  cheek,  too,  was 
wet — wet. 

"No,  it  was  not  a  dream,"  she  said.  "You 
came  back.  Thank  God  you  came  back,  just 

70 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

to  tell  us  that  those  who  do  not  come  back 
stand  awakened  in  that  ecstasy — in  that 
ecstasy.  And  The  Fear  is  nothing.  It  is  only 
The  Dream.  The  awakening  is  out  on  the 
hillside,  out  on  the  hillside!  Listen!"  She 
started  as  she  said  it.  "Listen!  The  nightin 
gale  is  beginning  again." 

He  sent  forth  in  the  dark  a  fountain — a  rising, 
aspiring  fountain — of  golden  notes  which  seemed 
to  reach  heaven  itself.  The  night  was  made 
radiant  by  them.  He  flung  them  upward  like 
a  shower  of  stars  into  the  sky.  We  sat  and 
listened,  almost  holding  our  breath.  Oh!  the 
nightingale !  the  nightingale ! 

"He  knows,"  Hector  MacNairn's  low  voice 
said,  "that  it  was  not  a  dream." 

When  there  was  silence  again  I  heard  him 
leave  his  chair  very  quietly. 

"Good  night!  good  night!"  he  said,  and  went 
away.  I  felt  somehow  that  he  had  left  us  to 
gether  for  a  purpose,  but,  oh,  I  did  not  even  re 
motely  dream  what  the  purpose  was!  But 
soon  she  told  me,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"We  love  you  very  much,  Ysobel,"  she  said. 
"You  know  that?" 

71 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"I  love  you  both,  with  all  my  heart,"  I 
answered.  "Indeed  I  love  you." 

"We  two  have  been  more  to  each  other  than 
mere  mother  and  son.  We  have  been  sufficient 
for  each  other.  But  he  began  to  love  you  that 
first  day  when  he  watched  you  in  the  railway 
carriage.  He  says  it  was  the  far  look  in  your 
eyes  which  drew  him." 

"I  began  to  love  him,  too,"  I  said.  And 
I  was  not  at  all  ashamed  or  shy  in  saying  it. 

"We  three  might  have  spent  our  lives  to 
gether,"  she  went  on.  "It  would  have  been  a 
perfect  thing.  But — but—  She  stood  up  as 
if  she  could  not  remain  seated.  Involuntarily  I 
stood  up  with  her.  She  was  trembling,  and  she 
caught  and  held  me  in  her  arms.  "He  cannot 
stay,  Ysobel,"  she  ended. 

I  could  scarcely  hear  my  own  voice  when  I 
echoed  the  words. 

"He  cannot— stay?" 

"Oh!  the  time  will  come,"  she  said,  "when 
people  who  love  each  other  will  not  be  separated, 
when  on  this  very  earth  there  will  be  no  pain, 
no  grief,  no  age,  no  death — when  all  the  world 
has  learned  the  Law  at  last.  But  we  have  not 

72 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

learned  it  yet.  And  here  we  stand!  The 
greatest  specialists  have  told  us.  There  is  some 
fatal  flaw  in  his  heart.  At  any  moment,  when 
he  is  talking  to  us,  when  he  is  at  his  work,  when 
he  is  asleep,  he  may — cease.  It  will  just  be 
ceasing.  At  any  moment.  He  cannot  stay." 

My  own  heart  stood  still  for  a  second.  Then 
there  rose  before  me  slowly,  but  clearly,  a 
vision — the  vision  which  was  not  a  dream. 

"Out  on  the  hillside,"  I  murmured.  "Out 
on  the  hillside." 

I  clung  to  her  with  both  arms  and  held  her 
tight.  I  understood  now  why  they  had  talked 
about  The  Fear.  These  two  who  were  almost 
one  soul  were  trying  to  believe  that  they  were 
not  really  to  be  torn  apart — not  really.  They 
were  trying  to  heap  up  for  themselves  proof 
that  they  might  still  be  near  each  other.  And, 
above  all,  his  effort  was  to  save  her  from  the 
worst,  worst  woe.  And  I  understood,  too,  why 
something  wiser  and  stronger  than  myself  had 
led  me  to  tell  the  dream  which  was  not  a  dream 
at  all. 

But  it  was  as  she  said;  the  world  had  not 
learned  the  Secret  yet.  And  there  we  stood. 

73 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

We  did  not  cry  or  talk,  but  we  clung  to  each 
other — we  dung.  That  is  all  human  creatures 
can  do  until  the  Secret  is  known.  And  as  we 
clung  the  nightingale  broke  out  again. 

"O  nightingale!  O  nightingale!"  she  said  in 
her  low  wonder  of  a  voice.  "What  are  you 
trying  to  tell  us!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHAT  I  feel  sure  I  know  by  this  time  is 
that  all  the  things  we  think  happen  by 
chance  and  accident  are  only  part  of  the  weaving 
of  the  scheme  of  life.  When  you  begin  to  sus 
pect  this  and  to  watch  closely  you  also  begin  to 
see  how  trifles  connect  themselves  with  one 
another,  and  seem  in  the  end  to  have  led  to  a 
reason  and  a  meaning,  though  we  may  not  be 
clever  enough  to  see  it  clearly.  Nothing  is  an 
accident.  We  make  everything  happen  our 
selves:  the  wrong  things  because  we  do  not 
know  or  care  whether  we  are  wrong  or  right, 
the  right  ones  because  we  unconsciously  or  con 
sciously  choose  the  right  even  in  the  midst  of 
our  ignorance. 

I  dare  say  it  sounds  audacious  for  an  ordinary 
girl  to  say  such  things  in  an  ordinary  way; 
but  perhaps  I  have  said  them  in  spite  of  myself, 
because  it  is  not  a  bad  thing  that  they  should  be 

75 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

said  by  an  every-day  sort  of  person  in  simple 
words  which  other  every-day  people  can  under 
stand.  I  am  only  expressing  what  has  gradu 
ally  grown  into  belief  in  my  mind  through  read 
ing  with  Angus  ancient  books  and  modern  ones 
—books  about  faiths  and  religions,  books  about 
philosophies  and  magics,  books  about  what  the 
world  calls  marvels,  but  which  are  not  marvels 
at  all,  but  only  workings  of  the  Law  most 
people  have  not  yet  reasoned  about  or  even 
accepted. 

Angus  had  read  and  studied  them  all  his  life 
before  he  began  to  read  them  with  me,  and  we 
talked  them  over  together  sitting  by  the  fire 
in  the  library,  fascinated  and  staring  at  each 
other,  I  in  one  high-backed  chair  and  he  in 
another  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth. 
Angus  is  wonderful — wonderful!  He  knows 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  chance.  He  knows 
that  we  ourselves  are  the  working  of  the  Law — 
and  that  we  ourselves  could  work  what  now 
are  stupidly  called  "miracles"  if  we  could  only 
remember  always  what  the  Law  is. 

What  I  intended  to  say  at  first  was  merely 
that  it  was  not  by  chance  that  I  climbed  to  the 

76 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

shelf  in  the  library  that  afternoon  and  pushed 
aside  the  books  hiding  the  old  manuscript 
which  told  the  real  story  of  Dark  Malcolm  of 
the  Glen  and  \Yee  Brown  Elspeth.  It  seemed 
like  chance  when  it  happened,  but  it  was  really 
the  first  step  toward  my  finding  out  the  strange, 
beautiful  thing  I  knew  soon  afterward. 

From  the  beginning  of  my  friendship  with  the 
MacNairns  I  had  hoped  they  would  come  and 
stay  with  me  at  Muircarrie.  When  they  both 
seemed  to  feel  such  interest  in  all  I  told  them  of 
it,  and  not  to  mind  its  wild  remoteness,  I  took 
courage  and  asked  them  if  they  would  come  to 
me.  Most  people  are  bored  by  the  prospect  of 
life  in  a  feudal  castle,  howsoever  picturesquely 
it  is  set  in  a  place  where  there  are  no  neighbors 
to  count  on.  Its  ancient  stateliness  is  too  dull. 
But  the  MacNairns  were  more  allured  by  what 
Muircarrie  offered  than  they  were  by  other 
and  more  brilliant  invitations.  So  when  I  went 
back  to  the  castle  I  was  only  to  be  alone  a  week 
before  they  followed  me. 

Jean  and  Angus  were  quite  happy  in  their 
quiet  way  when  I  told  them  who  I  was  expect 
ing.  They  knew  how  glad  I  was  myself.  Jean 

77 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

was  full  of  silent  pleasure  as  she  arranged  the 
rooms  I  had  chosen  for  my  guests,  rooms  which 
had  the  most  sweeping  view  of  the  moor. 
Angus  knew  that  Mr.  MacNairn  would  love  the 
library,  and  he  hovered  about  consulting  his 
catalogues  and  looking  over  his  shelves,  taking 
down  volumes  here  and  there,  holding  them 
tenderly  in  his  long,  bony  old  hand  as  he  dipped 
into  them.  He  made  notes  of  the  manuscripts 
and  books  he  thought  Mr.  MacNairn  would 
feel  the  deepest  interest  in.  He  loved  his  library 
with  all  his  being,  and  I  knew  he  looked  forward 
to  talking  to  a  man  who  would  care  for  it  in  the 
same  way. 

He  had  been  going  over  one  of  the  highest 
shelves  one  day  and  had  left  his  step-ladder 
leaning  against  it  when  he  went  elsewhere.  It 
was  when  I  mounted  the  steps,  as  I  often  did 
when  he  left  them,  that  I  came  upon  the  manu 
script  which  related  the  old  story  of  Dark 
Malcolm  and  his  child.  It  had  been  pushed  be 
hind  some  volumes,  and  I  took  it  out  because  it 
looked  so  old  and  yellow.  And  I  opened  at  once 
at  the  page  where  the  tale  began. 

At  first  I  stood  reading,  and  then  I  sat  down 

78 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

on  the  broad  top  of  the  ladder  and  forgot  every 
thing.  It  was  a  savage  history  of  ferocious  hate 
and  barbarous  reprisals.  It  had  been  a  feud 
waged  between  two  clans  for  three  generations. 
The  story  of  Dark  Malcolm  and  Ian  Red  Hand 
was  only  part  of  it,  but  it  was  a  gruesome  thing. 
Pages  told  of  the  bloody  deeds  they  wrought  on 
each  other's  houses.  The  one  human  passion 
of  Dark  Malcolm's  life  was  his  love  for  his 
little  daughter.  She  had  brown  eyes  and  brown 
hair,  and  those  who  most  loved  her  called  her 
Wee  Brown  Elspeth.  Ian  Red  Hand  was  richer 
and  more  powerful  than  Malcolm  of  the  Glen, 
and  therefore  could  more  easily  work  his  cruel 
will.  He  knew  well  of  Malcolm's  worship  of  his 
child,  and  laid  his  plans  to  torture  him  through 
her.  Dark  Malcolm,  coming  back  to  his  rude, 
small  castle  one  night  after  a  raid  in  which  he 
had  lost  followers  and  weapons  and  strength, 
found  that  Wee  Brown  Elspeth  had  been  carried 
away,  and  unspeakable  taunts  and  threats  left 
behind  by  Ian  and  his  men.  With  unbound 
wounds,  broken  dirks  and  hacked  swords,  Dark 
Malcolm  and  the  remnant  of  his  troop  of  fight 
ing  clansmen  rushed  forth  into  the  night. 

79 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"Neither  men  nor  weapons  have  we  to  win 
her  back,"  screamed  Dark  Malcolm,  raving 
mad,  "but  we  may  die  fighting  to  get  near 
enough  to  her  to  drive  dirk  into  her  little  breast 
and  save  her  from  worse." 

They  were  a  band  of  madmen  in  their  black 
despair.  How  they  tore  through  the  black 
night;  what  unguarded  weak  spot  they  found 
in  lan's  castle  walls;  how  they  fought  their  way 
through  it,  leaving  their  dead  bodies  in  the 
path,  none  really  ever  knew.  By  what  strange 
chance  Dark  Malcolm  came  upon  Wee  Brown 
Elspeth,  craftily  set  to  playing  hide-and-seek 
with  a  child  of  lan's  so  that  she  might  not  cry 
out  and  betray  her  presence;  how,  already 
wounded  to  his  death,  he  caught  at  and  drove 
his  dirk  into  her  child  heart,  the  story  only 
offers  guesses  at.  But  kill  and  save  her  he  did, 
falling  dead  with  her  body  held  against  his 
breast,  her  brown  hair  streaming  over  it.  Not 
one  living  man  went  back  to  the  small,  rude 
castle  on  the  Glen — not  one. 

I  sat  and  read  and  read  until  the  room  grew 
dark.  When  I  stopped  I  found  that  Angus 
Macayre  was  standing  in  the  dimness  at  the 

80 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

foot  of  the  ladder.  He  looked  up  at  me  and  I 
down  at  him.  For  a  few  moments  we  were  both 
quite  still. 

"It  is  the  tale  of  Ian  Red  Hand  and  Dark 
Malcolm  you  are  reading?"  he  said,  at  last. 

"And  Wee  Brown  Elspeth,  who  was  fought 
for  and  killed,"  I  added,  slowly. 

Angus  nodded  his  head  with  a  sad  face.  "It 
was  the  only  way  for  a  father,"  he  said.  "A 
hound  of  hell  was  Ian.  Such  men  were  savage 
beasts  in  those  days,  not  human." 

I  touched  the  manuscript  with  my  hand  ques- 
tioningly.  "Did  this  fall  at  the  back  there  by 
accident,"  I  asked,  "or  did  you  hide  it?" 

"I  did,"  he  answered.  "It  was  no  tale  for 
a  young  thing  to  read.  I  have  hidden  many 
from  you.  You  were  always  poking  about  in 
corners,  Ysobel." 

Then  I  sat  and  thought  over  past  memories  for 
a  while  and  the  shadows  in  the  room  deepened. 

"Why,"  I  said,  laggingly,  after  the  silence— 
"why  did  I  call  the  child  who  used  to  play  with 
me  'Wee  Brown  Elspeth'?" 

"It  was  your  own  fancy,"  was  his  reply.  "I 
used  to  wonder  myself;  but  I  made  up  my 

81 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

mind  that  you  had  heard  some  of  the  maids 
talking  and  the  name  had  caught  your  ear. 
That  would  be  a  child's  way." 

I  put  my  forehead  in  my  hands  and  thought 
again.  So  many  years  had  passed !  I  had  been 
little  more  than  a  baby;  the  whole  thing 
seemed  like  a  half-forgotten  dream  when  I 
tried  to  recall  it — but  I  seemed  to  dimly  re 
member  strange  things. 

"Who  were  the  wild  men  who  brought  her  to 
me  first — that  day  on  the  moor?"  I  said.  "I 
do  remember  they  had  pale,  savage,  exultant 
faces.  And  torn,  stained  clothes.  And  broken 
dirks  and  swords.  But  they  were  glad  of  some 
thing.  Who  were  they?" 

"I  did  not  see  them.  The  mist  was  too 
thick,"  he  answered.  "They  were  some  wild 
hunters,  perhaps." 

"It  gives  me  such  a  strange  feeling  to  try  to 
remember,  Angus,"  I  said,  lifting  my  forehead 
from  my  hands. 

"Don't  try,"  he  said.  "Give  me  the  manu 
script  and  get  down  from  the  step-ladder. 
Come  and  look  at  the  list  of  books  I  have  made 
for  Mr.  MacNairn." 

82 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

I  did  as  he  told  me,  but  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
walking  in  a  dream.  My  mind  seemed  to  have 
left  my  body  and  gone  back  to  the  day  when  I 
sat  a  little  child  on  the  moor  and  heard  the  dull 
sound  of  horses'  feet  and  the  jingling  metal  and 
the  creak  of  leather  coming  nearer  hi  the  thick 
mist. 

I  felt  as  if  Angus  were  in  a  queer,  half-awake 
mood,  too — as  if  two  sets  of  thoughts  were 
working  at  the  same  time  in  his  mind:  one  his 
thoughts  about  Hector  MacNairn  and  the 
books,  the  other  some  queer  thoughts  which 
went  on  in  spite  of  him. 

\Vhen  I  was  going  to  leave  the  library  and 
go  up-stairs  to  dress  for  dinner  he  said  a  strange 
thing  to  me,  and  he  said  it  slowly  and  in  a  heavy 
voice. 

"  There  is  a  thing  Jean  and  I  have  often  talked 
of  telling  you,"  he  said.  "We  have  not  known 
what  it  was  best  to  do.  Times  we  have  been 
troubled  because  we  could  not  make  up  our 
minds.  This  Mr.  Hector  MacNairn  is  no  com 
mon  man.  He  is  one  wrho  is  great  and  wise 
enough  to  decide  things  plain  people  could 
not  be  sure  of.  Jean  and  I  are  glad  indeed 

83 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

that  he  and  his  mother  are  coining.  Jean  can 
talk  to  her  and  I  can  talk  to  him,  being  a  man 
body.  They  will  tell  us  whether  we  have  been 
right  or  wrong  and  what  we  must  do." 

"They  are  wise  enough  to  tell  you  anything," 
I  answered.  "It  sounds  as  if  you  and  Jean  had 
known  some  big  secret  all  my  life.  But  I  am 
not  frightened.  You  two  would  go  to  your 
graves  hiding  it  if  it  would  hurt  me." 

"Eh,  bairn!"  he  said,  suddenly,  in  a  queer, 
moved  way.  "Eh,  bairn!"  And  he  took  hold 
of  both  my  hands  and  kissed  them,  pressing 
them  quite  long  and  emotionally  to  his  lips. 
But  he  said  nothing  else,  and  when  he  dropped 
them  I  went  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  wonderful  when  Mr.  MacNairn  and 
his  mother  came.  It  was  even  more  beau 
tiful  than  I  had  thought  it  would  be.  They 
arrived  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  when  I  took 
them  out  upon  the  terrace  the  sun  was  redden 
ing  the  moor,  and  even  the  rough,  gray  towers 
of  the  castle  were  stained  rose-color.  There 
was  that  lovely  evening  sound  of  birds  twitter 
ing  before  they  went  to  sleep  in  the  ivy.  The 
glimpses  of  gardens  below  seemed  like  glimpses 
of  rich  tapestries  set  with  jewels.  And  there 
was  such  stillness!  When  we  drew  our  three 
chairs  in  a  little  group  together  and  looked  out 
on  it  all,  I  felt  as  if  we  were  almost  in  heaven. 

"Yes!  yes!"  Hector  said,  looking  slowly 
round;  "it  is  all  here." 

"Yes,"  his  mother  added,  in  her  lovely,  lovely 
voice.  "It  is  what  made  you  Ysobel." 

It  was  so  angelic  of  them  to  feel  it  all  in  that 

85 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

deep,  quiet  way,  and  to  think  that  it  was  part 
of  me  and  I  a  part  of  it.  The  climbing  moon 
was  trembling  with  beauty.  Tender  evening 
airs  quivered  in  the  heather  and  fern,  and  the 
late  birds  called  like  spirits. 

Ever  since  the  night  when  Mrs.  MacNairn 
had  held  me  in  her  arms  under  the  apple-tree 
while  the  nightingale  sang  I  had  felt  toward  her 
son  as  if  he  were  an  archangel  walking  on  the 
earth.  Perhaps  my  thoughts  were  exaggerated, 
but  it  seemed  so  marvelous  that  he  should  be 
moving  among  us,  doing  his  work,  seeing  and 
talking  to  his  friends,  and  yet  that  he  should 
know  that  at  any  moment  the  great  change 
might  come  and  he  might  awaken  somewhere 
else,  in  quite  another  place.  If  he  had  been 
like  other  men  and  I  had  been  like  other  girls, 
I  suppose  that  after  that  night  when  I  heard  the 
truth  I  should  have  been  plunged  into  the 
darkest  woe  and  have  almost  sobbed  myself  to 
death.  Why  did  I  not?  I  do  not  know  except 
— except  that  I  felt  that  no  darkness  could  come 
between  us  because  no  darkness  could  touch 
him.  He  could  never  be  anything  but  alive — 
alive.  If  I  could  not  see  him  it  would  only  be 

86 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

because  my  eyes  were  not  clear  and  strong 
enough.  I  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  some 
thing.  I  wanted  to  keep  near  him. 

I  was  full  of  this  feeling  as  we  sat  together 
on  the  terrace  and  watched  the  moon.  I  could 
scarcely  look  away  from  him.  He  was  rather 
pale  that  evening,  but  there  seemed  to  be  a 
light  behind  his  pallor,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to 
see  so  much  more  than  the  purple  and  yellow 
of  the  heather  and  gorse  as  they  rested  on  them. 

After  I  had  watched  him  silently  for  a  little 
while  I  leaned  forward  and  pointed  to  a  part 
of  the  moor  where  there  was  an  unbroken  blaze 
of  gorse  in  full  bloom  like  a  big  patch  of  gold. 

"That  is  where  I  was  sitting  when  Wee 
Brown  Elspeth  was  first  brought  to  me,"  I  said. 

He  sat  upright  and  looked.  "Is  it?"  he 
answered.  "  Will  you  take  me  there  to-morrow ? 
I  have  always  wanted  to  see  the  place." 

"Would  you  like  to  go  early  in  the  morning? 
The  mist  is  more  likely  to  be  there  then,  as  it 
was  that  day.  It  is  so  mysterious  and  beautiful. 
Would  you  like  to  do  that?"  I  asked  him. 

"Better  than  anything  else!"  he  said.  "Yes, 
let  us  go  in  the  morning." 

87 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"Wee  Brown  Elspeth  seems  very  near  me  this 
evening,"  I  said.  "I  feel  as  if — "  I  broke  off 
and  began  again.  "I  have  a  puzzled  feeling 
about  her.  This  afternoon  I  found  some  manu 
script  pushed  behind  a  book  on  a  high  shelf  in 
the  library.  Angus  said  he  had  hidden  it  there 
because  it  was  a  savage  story  he  did  not  wish 
me  to  read.  It  was  the  history  of  the  feud 
between  Ian  Red  Hand  and  Dark  Malcolm 
of  the  Glen.  Dark  Malcolm's  child  was  called 
Wee  Brown  Elspeth  hundreds  of  years  ago— 
five  hundred,  I  think.  It  makes  me  feel  so  be 
wildered  when  I  remember  the  one  I  played 
with." 

"It  was  a  bloody  story,"  he  said.  "I  heard 
it  only  a  few  days  before  we  met  at  Sir  lan's 
house  in  London." 

That  made  me  recall  something. 

"Was  that  why  you  started  when  I  told  you 
about  Elspeth?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  Perhaps  the  one  you  played  with  was 
a  little  descendant  who  had  inherited  her  name," 
he  answered,  a  trifle  hurriedly.  "I  confess  I 
was  startled  for  a  moment." 

I  put  my  hand  up  to  my  forehead  and  rubbed 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

it  unconsciously.     I  could  not  help   seeing  a 
woesome  picture. 

"Poor  little  soul,  with  the  blood  pouring  from 
her  heart  and  her  brown  hair  spread  over  her 
dead  father's  breast!"  I  stopped,  because  a 
faint  memory  came  back  to  me.  "Mine,"  I 
stammered — "mine — how  strange! — had  a  great 
stain  on  the  embroideries  of  her  dress.  She 
looked  at  it — and  looked.  She  looked  as  if  she 
didn't  like  it — as  if  she  didn't  understand  how 
it  came  there.  She  covered  it  with  ferns  and 
bluebells." 

I  felt  as  if  I  were  being  drawn  away  into  a 
dream.  I  made  a  sudden  effort  to  come  back. 
I  ceased  rubbing  my  forehead  and  dropped  my 
hand,  sitting  upright. 

"I  must  ask  Angus  and  Jean  to  tell  me  about 
her,"  I  said.  "Of  course,  they  must  have 
known.  I  wonder  why  I  never  thought  of 
asking  questions  before." 

It  was  a  strange  look  I  met  when  I  involun 
tarily  turned  toward  him — such  an  absorbed, 
strange,  tender  look! 

I  knew  he  sat  quite  late  in  the  library  that 
night,  talking  to  Angus  after  his  mother  and  I 

89 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

went  to  our  rooms.  Just  as  I  was  falling  asleep 
I  remember  there  floated  through  my  mind  a 
vague  recollection  of  what  Angus  had  said  to 
me  of  asking  his  advice  about  something;  and 
I  wondered  if  he  would  reach  the  subject  in  their 
talk,  or  if  they  would  spend  all  their  time  in 
poring  over  manuscripts  and  books  together. 

The  moor  wore  its  most  mysterious  look  when 
I  got  up  in  the  early  morning.  It  had  hidden 
itself  in  its  softest  snows  of  white,  swathing 
mist.  Only  here  and  there  dark  fir-trees  showed 
themselves  above  it,  and  now  and  then  the 
whiteness  thinned  or  broke  and  drifted.  It 
was  as  I  had  wanted  him  to  see  it — just  as  I 
had  wanted  to  walk  through  it  with  him. 

We  had  met  in  the  hall  as  we  had  planned, 
and,  wrapped  in  our  plaids  because  the  early 
morning  air  was  cold,  we  tramped  away  to 
gether.  No  one  but  myself  could  ever  realize 
what  it  was  like.  I  had  never  known  that  there 
could  be  such  a  feeling  of  companionship  in  the 
world.  It  would  not  have  been  necessary  for 
us  to  talk  at  all  if  we  had  felt  silent.  We  should 
have  been  saying  things  to  each  other  without 
words.  But  we  did  talk  as  we  walked — in  quiet 

90 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

voices  which  seemed  made  quieter  by  the  mist, 
and  of  quiet  things  which  such  voices  seemed 
to  belong  to. 

We  crossed  the  park  to  a  stile  in  a  hedge  where 
a  path  led  at  once  on  to  the  moor.  Part  of  the 
park  itself  had  once  been  moorland,  and  was 
dark  with  slender  firs  and  thick  grown  w^ith 
heather  and  broom.  On  the  moor  the  mist  grew 
thicker,  and  if  I  had  not  so  well  known  the  path 
we  might  have  lost  ourselves  in  it.  Also  I 
knew  by  heart  certain  little  streams  that  rushed 
and  made  guiding  sounds  which  were  sometimes 
loud  whispers  and  sometimes  singing  babbles. 
The  damp,  sweet  scent  of  fern  and  heather  was 
in  our  nostrils;  as  we  climbed  we  breathed  its 
freshness. 

"There  is  a  sort  of  unearthly  loveliness  in  it 
all,"  Hector  MacXairn  said  to  me.  His  voice 
was  rather  like  his  mother's.  It  always  seemed 
to  say  so  much  more  than  his  words. 

"We  might  be  ghosts,"  I  answered.  "Wre 
might  be  some  of  those  the  mist  hides  because 
they  like  to  be  hidden." 

"You  would  not  be  afraid  if  you  met  one  of 
them?"  he  said. 

91 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

"No.  I  think  I  am  sure  of  that.  I  should 
feel  that  it  was  only  like  myself,  and,  if  I  could 
hear,  might  tell  me  things  I  want  to  know." 

"What  do  you  want  to  know?"  he  asked  me, 
very  low.  "You!" 

"Only  what  everybody  wants  to  know — that 
it  is  really  awakening  free,  ready  for  wonderful 
new  things,  finding  oneself  in  the  midst  of  won 
ders.  I  don't  mean  angels  with  harps  and 
crowns,  but  beauty  such  as  we  see  now;  only 
seeing  it  without  burdens  of  fears  before  and 
behind  us.  And  knowing  there  is  no  reason  to 
be  afraid.  We  have  all  been  so  afraid.  We 
don't  know  how  afraid  we  have  been — of  every 
thing." 

I  stopped  among  the  heather  and  threw  my 
arms  out  wide.  I  drew  in  a  great,  joyous 
morning  breath. 

"Free— like  that!  It  is  the  freeness,  the 
light,  splendid  freeness,  I  think  of  most." 

"The  freeness!"  he  repeated.  "Yes,  the 
freeness!" 

"As  for  beauty,"  I  almost  whispered,  in  a  sort 
of  reverence  for  visions  I  remembered,  "I  have 
stood  on  this  moor  a  thousand  times  and  seen 

92 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

loveliness  which  made  me  tremble.  One's  soul 
could  want  no  more  in  any  life.  But  'Out  on 
the  Hillside '  I  knew  I  was  part  of  it,  and  it  was 
ecstasy.  That  was  the  freeness." 

"Yes — it  was  the  freeness,"  he  answered. 

We  brushed  through  the  heather  and  the 
bracken,  and  flower-bells  shook  showers  of 
radiant  drops  upon  us.  The  mist  wavered  and 
sometimes  lifted  before  us,  and  opened  up 
mystic  vistas  to  veil  them  again  a  few  minutes 
later.  The  sun  tried  to  break  through,  and 
sometimes  we  walked  in  a  golden  haze. 

W7e  fell  into  silence.  Now  and  then  I  glanced 
side  wise  at  my  companion  as  we  made  our 
soundless  way  over  the  thick  moss.  He  looked 
so  strong  and  beautiful.  His  tall  body  was  so 
fine,  his  shoulders  so  broad  and  splendid !  How 
could  it  be!  How  could  it  be!  As  he  tramped 
beside  me  he  was  thinking  deeply,  and  he 
knew  he  need  not  talk  to  me.  That  made  me 
glad — that  he  should  know  me  so  well  and 
feel  me  so  near.  That  was  what  he  felt  when 
he  was  with  his  mother,  that  she  understood 
and  that  at  times  neither  of  them  needed  words. 

Until   we  had   reached   the  patch  of  gorse 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

where  we  intended  to  end  our  walk  we  did  not 
speak  at  all.  He  was  thinking  of  things  which 
led  him  far.  I  knew  that,  though  I  did  not 
know  what  they  were.  When  we  reached  the 
golden  blaze  we  had  seen  the  evening  before  it 
was  a  flame  of  gold  again,  because — it  was  only 
for  a  few  moments — the  mist  had  blown  apart 
and  the  sun  was  shining  on  it. 

As  we  stood  in  the  midst  of  it  together — Oh! 
how  strange  and  beautiful  it  was! — Mr.  Mac- 
Nairn  came  back.  That  was  what  it  seemed  to 
me — that  he  came  back.  He  stood  quite  still 
a  moment  and  looked  about  him,  and  then  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  as  I  had  stretched  out 
mine.  But  he  did  it  slowly,  and  a  light  came 
into  his  face. 

"If,  after  it  was  over,  a  man  awakened  as  you 
said  and  found  himself — the  self  he  knew,  but 
light,  free,  splendid — remembering  all  the  ages 
of  dark,  unknowing  dread,  of  horror  of  some 
black,  aimless  plunge,  and  suddenly  seeing  all 
the  childish  uselessness  of  it — how  he  would 
stand  and  smile!  How  he  would  stand  and 
smile!" 

Never    had    I    understood    anything    more 

94 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

clearly  than  I  understood  then.  Yes,  yes! 
That  would  be  it.  Remembering  all  the  waste 
of  fear,  how  he  would  stand  and  smile! 

He  was  smiling  himself,  the  golden  gorse 
about  him  already  losing  its  flame  in  the  light 
returning  mist-wraiths  closing  again  over  it, 
when  I  heard  a  sound  far  away  and  high  up  the 
moor.  It  sounded  like  the  playing  of  a  piper. 
He  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"We  shall  be  shut  in  again,"  he  said.  "How 
mysterious  it  is,  this  opening  and  closing !  I  like 
it  more  than  anything  else.  Let  us  sit  down, 
Ysobel." 

He  spread  the  plaid  we  had  brought  to  sit  on, 
and  laid  on  it  the  little  strapped  basket  Jean 
had  made  ready  for  us.  He  shook  the  mist 
drops  from  our  own  plaids,  and  as  I  was  about 
to  sit  down  I  stopped  a  moment  to  listen. 

"That  is  a  tune  I  never  heard  on  the  pipes 
before,"  I  said.  "What  is  a  piper  doing  out  on 
the  moor  so  early?" 

He  listened  also.  "It  must  be  far  away.  I 
don't  hear  it,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  it  is  a  bird 
whistling." 

"It  is  far  away,"  I  answered,  "but  it  is  not 

95 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

a  bird.  It's  the  pipes,  and  playing  such  a 
strange  tune.  There !  It  has  stopped !" 

But  it  was  not  silent  long;  I  heard  the  tune 
begin  again  much  nearer,  and  the  piper  was 
plainly  coming  toward  us.  I  turned  my  head. 

The  mist  was  clearing,  and  floated  about  like 
a  thin  veil  through  which  one  could  see  objects. 
At  a  short  distance  above  us  on  the  moor  I  saw 
something  moving.  It  was  a  man  who  was 
playing  the  pipes.  It  was  the  piper,  and  almost 
at  once  I  knew  him,  because  it  was  actually  my 
own  Feargus,  stepping  proudly  through  the 
heather  with  his  step  like  a  stag  on  the  hills. 
His  head  was  held  high,  and  his  face  had  a  sort 
of  elated  delight  in  it  as  if  he  were  enjoying 
himself  and  the  morning  and  the  music  in  a 
new  way.  I  was  so  surprised  that  I  rose  to  my 
feet  and  called  to  him. 

"  Feargus !"  I  cried.     "  What—" 

I  knew  he  heard  me,  because  he  turned  and 
looked  at  me  with  the  most  extraordinary 
smile.  He  was  usually  a  rather  grave-faced 
man,  but  this  smile  had  a  kind  of  startling 
triumph  in  it.  He  certainly  heard  me,  for  he 
whipped  off  his  bonnet  in  a  salute  which  was  as 

96 


Q> 


HIE  WHIPPED  OFF  HIS  BONNET 
IN  A  SALUTE 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

triumphant  as  the  smile.  But  he  did  not 
answer,  and  actually  passed  in  and  out  of  sight 
in  the  mist. 

When  I  rose  Mr.  MacNairn  had  risen,  too. 
Wlien  I  turned  to  speak  in  my  surprise,  he  had 
fixed  on  me  his  watchful  look. 

"Imagine  its  being  Feargus  at  this  hour!"  I 
exclaimed.  "And  why  did  he  pass  by  in  such 
a  hurry  without  answering?  He  must  have 
been  to  a  wedding  and  have  been  up  all  night. 
He  looked — "  I  stopped  a  second  and  laughed. 

"How  did  he  look?"  Mr.  MacNairn  asked. 

"Pale!  That  won't  do — though  he  certainly 
didn't  look  ill."  I  laughed  again.  "I'm  laugh 
ing  because  he  looked  almost  like  one  of  the 
White  People." 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  Feargus?"  he  said. 

"Quite  sure.  No  one  else  is  the  least  like 
Feargus.  Didn't  you  see  him  yourself?" 

"I  don't  know  him  as  well  as  you  do;  and 
there  was  the  mist,"  was  his  answer.  "But  he 
certainly  was  not  one  of  the  WTiite  People  when 
I  saw  him  last  night." 

I  wondered  why  he  looked  as  he  did  when 
he  took  my  hand  and  drew  me  down  to  my 

97 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

place  on  the  plaid  again.  He  did  not  let  it  go 
when  he  sat  down  by  my  side.  He  held  it  in 
his  own  large,  handsome  one,  looking  down  on  it 
a  moment  or  so;  and  then  he  bent  his  head  and 
kissed  it  long  and  slowly  two  or  three  times. 

"Dear  little  Ysobel!"  he  said.  "Beloved, 
strange  little  Ysobel." 

"Am  I  strange!"  I  said,  softly. 

"Yes,  thank  God!"  he  answered. 

I  had  known  that  some  day  when  we  were 
at  Muircarrie  together  he  would  tell  me  what 
his  mother  had  told  me — about  what  we  three 
might  have  been  to  one  another.  I  trembled 
with  happiness  at  the  thought  of  hearing  him 
say  it  himself.  I  knew  he  was  going  to  say  it 
now. 

He  held  my  hand  and  stroked  it.  "My 
mother  told  you,  Ysobel — what  I  am  waiting 
for?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  I  love  you?"  he  said,  very  low. 

"Yes.  I  love  you,  too.  My  whole  life 
would  have  been  heaven  if  we  could  always 
have  been  together,"  was  my  answer. 

He  drew  me  up  into  his  arms  so  that  my 

98 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

cheek  lay  against  his  breast  as  I  went  on, 
holding  fast  to  the  rough  tweed  of  his  jacket 
and  whispering:  "I  should  have  belonged  to 
you  two,  heart  and  body  and  soul.  I  should 
never  have  been  lonely  again.  I  should  have 
known  nothing,  whatsoever  happened,  but  ten 
der  joy." 

"Whatsoever  happened?"  he  murmured. 
"Whatsoever  happens  now,  Ysobel,  know  noth 
ing  but  tender  joy.  I  think  you  can.  'Out  on 
the  Hillside!'  Let  us  remember." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said;  "'Out  on  the  Hillside.'" 
And  our  two  faces,  damp  with  the  sweet  mist, 
were  pressed  together. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  mist  had  floated  away,  and  the  moor 
was  drenched  with  golden  sunshine  when 
we  went  back  to  the  castle.  As  we  entered  the 
hall  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  dog  howling,  and 
spoke  of  it  to  one  of  the  men-servants  who  had 
opened  the  door. 

"That  sounds  like  Gelert.  Is  he  shut  up 
somewhere?" 

Gelert  was  a  beautiful  sheep-dog  who  be 
longed  to  Feargus  and  was  his  heart's  friend. 
I  allowed  him  to  be  kept  in  the  courtyard. 

The  man  hesitated  before  he  answered  me, 
with  a  curiously  grave  face. 

"It  is  Gelert,  miss.  He  is  howling  for  his 
master.  We  were  obliged  to  shut  him  in  the 
stables." 

"But  Feargus  ought  to  have  reached  here  by 
this  time,"  I  was  beginning. 

I  was  stopped  because  I  found  Angus  Macayre 
100 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 


almost  at  my  elbow.  He  had  that  moment 
come  out  of  the  library.  He  put  his  hand  on 
my  arm. 

'Will  ye  come  with  me?"  he  said,  and  led  me 
back  to  the  room  he  had  just  left.  He  kept 
his  hand  on  my  arm  when  we  all  stood  together 
inside,  Hector  and  I  looking  at  him  in  wondering 
question.  He  was  going  to  tell  me  something— 
we  both  saw  that. 

"It  is  a  sad  thing  you  have  to  hear,"  he  said. 
"He  was  a  fine  man,  Feargus,  and  a  most  faith 
ful  servant.  He  went  to  see  his  mother  last 
night  and  came  back  late  across  the  moor. 
There  was  a  heavy  mist,  and  he  must  have  lost 
his  way.  A  shepherd  found  his  body  in  a  tarn 
at  daybreak.  They  took  him  back  to  his> 
father's  home." 

I  looked  at  Hector  MacNairn  and  again  at 
Angus.  "But  it  couldn't  be  Feargus,"  I  cried. 
"I  saw  him  an  hour  ago.  He  passed  us  playing 
on  his  pipes.  He  was  playing  a  new  tune  T 
had  never  heard  before — a  wonderful,  joyous, 
thing.  I  both  heard  and  saw  him!" 

Angus  stood   still  and   watched  me.     They 

both  stood  still  and  watched  me,  and  even  irt 
8  101 


:::  :;:/xTfiE:  WHITE    PEOPLE 

my  excitemeiif  1  saw  that  each  of  them  looked 
a  little  pale. 

"You  said  you  did  not  hear  him  at  first,  but 
you  surely  saw  him  when  he  passed  so  near," 
I  protested.  "I  called  to  him,  and  he  took 
off  his  bonnet,  though  he  did  not  stop.  He  was 
going  so  quickly  that  perhaps  he  did  not  hear 
me  call  his  name." 

What  strange  thing  in  Hector's  look  checked 
me?  Who  knows? 

"You  did  see  him,  didn't  you?"  I  asked  of 
him. 

Then  he  and  Angus  exchanged  glances,  as  if 
Basking  each  other  to  decide  some  grave  thing. 
It  was  Hector  MacNairn  who  decided  it. 

"No,"  he  answered,  very  quietly,  "I  neither 
saw  nor  heard  him,  even  when  he  passed. 
But  you  did." 

"I  did,  quite  plainly,"  I  went  on,  more  and 
more  bewildered  by  the  way  in  which  they  kept 
a  sort  of  tender,  awed  gaze  fixed  on  me.  "You 
remember  I  even  noticed  that  he  looked  pale.  I 
laughed,  you  know,  when  I  said  he  looked  almost 
like  one  of  the  White  People—" 

Just  then  my   breath   caught  itself   and   I 
102 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

stopped.  I  began  to  remember  things — hun 
dreds  of  things. 

Angus  spoke  to  me  again  as  quietly  as  Hector 
had  spoken. 

"Neither  Jean  nor  I  ever  saw  Wee  Brown 
Elspeth,"  he  said — "neither  Jean  nor  I.  But 
you  did.  You  have  always  seen  what  the  rest 
of  us  did  not  see,  my  bairn — always." 

I  stammered  out  a  few  words,  half  in  a 
whisper.  "I  have  always  seen  what  you  others 
could  not  see?  What — have — / — seen?" 

But  I  was  not  frightened.  I  suppose  I  could 
never  tell  any  one  what  strange,  wide,  bright 
places  seemed  suddenly  to  open  and  shine  before 
me.  Not  places  to  shrink  back  from — oh  no! 
no!  One  could  be  sure,  then — sure!  Feargus 
had  lifted  his  bonnet  with  that  extraordinary 
triumph  in  his  look — even  Feargus,  who  had 
been  rather  dour. 

"You  called  them  the  WTiite  People,"  Hector 
MacNairn  said. 

Angus  and  Jean  had  known  all  my  life. 
A  very  old  shepherd  who  had  looked  in  my 
face  when  I  was  a  baby  had  said  I  had  the  eyes 

103 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

which  "saw"  It  was  only  the  saying  of  an  old 
Highlander,  and  might  not  have  been  remem 
bered.  Later  the  two  began  to  believe  I  had 
a  sight  they  had  not.  The  night  before  Wee 
Brown  Elspeth  had  been  brought  to  me  Angus 
had  read  for  the  first  time  the  story  of  Dark 
Malcolm,  and  as  they  sat  near  me  on  the  moor 
they  had  been  talking  about  it.  That  was  why 
he  forgot  himself  when  I  came  to  ask  them  where 
the  child  had  gone,  and  told  him  of  the  big, 
dark  man  with  the  scar  on  his  forehead.  After 
that  they  were  sure. 

They  had  always  hidden  their  knowledge  from 
me  because  they  were  afraid  it  might  frighten 
me  to  be  told.  I  had  not  been  a  strong  child. 
They  kept  the  secret  from  my  relatives  because 
they  knew  they  would  dislike  to  hear  it  and 
would  not  believe,  and  also  would  dislike  me  as 
a  queer,  abnormal  creature.  Angus  had  fears 
of  what  they  might  do  with  doctors  and  severe 
efforts  to  obliterate  from  my  mind  my  "non 
sense,"  as  they  would  have  been  sure  to  call  it. 
The  two  wise  souls  had  shielded  me  on  every 
side. 

"It  was  better  that  you  should  go  on  think- 

104 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

ing  it  only  a  simple,  natural  thing,"  Angus  said. 
"And  as  to  natural,  what  is  natural  and  what 
is  not?  Man  has  not  learned  all  the  laws  of 
nature  yet.  Nature's  a  grand,  rich,  endless 
thing,  always  unrolling  her  scroll  with  writings 
that  seem  new  on  it.  They're  not  new.  They 
were  always  written  there.  But  they  were  not 
unrolled.  Never  a  law  broken,  never  a  new 
law,  only  laws  read  with  stronger  eyes." 

Angus  and  I  had  always  been  very  fond  of  the 
Bible — the  strange  old  temple  of  wonders,  full  of 
all  the  poems  and  tragedies  and  histories  of  man, 
his  hates  and  battles  and  loves  and  follies,  and 
of  the  Wisdom  of  the  universe  and  the  promises 
of  the  splendors  of  it,  and  which  even  those  of 
us  who  think  ourselves  the  most  believing 
neither  wholly  believe  nor  will  understand. 
We  had  pored  over  and  talked  of  it.  We  had 
never  thought  of  it  as  only  a  pious  thing  to  do. 
The  book  was  to  us  one  of  the  mystic,  awe- 
inspiring,  prophetic  marvels  of  the  world. 

That  was  what  made  me  say,  half  whispering: 
"I  have  wondered  and  wondered  what  it  meant 
— that  verse  in  Isaiah :  '  Behold  the  former  things 
are  come  to  pass  and  new  things  do  I  declare^ 

105 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

before  they  spring  forth  I  tell  you  of  them.' 
Perhaps  it  means  only  the  unrolling  of  the 
scroll." 

"Aye,  aye!"  said  Angus;  "it  is  full  of  such 
deep  sayings,  and  none  of  us  will  listen  to  them." 

"It  has  taken  man  eons  of  time,"  Hector 
MacNairn  said,  thinking  it  out  as  he  spoke — 
"eons  of  time  to  reach  the  point  where  he  is 
beginning  to  know  that  in  every  stock  and  stone 
in  his  path  may  lie  hidden  some  power  he  has 
not  yet  dreamed  of.  He  has  learned  that 
lightning  may  be  commanded,  distance  con 
quered,  motion  chained  and  utilized;  but  he, 
the  one  conscious  force,  has  never  yet  begun 
to  suspect  that  of  all  others  he  may  be  the  one 
as  yet  the  least  explored.  How  do  we  know 
that  there  does  not  lie  in  each  of  us  a  wholly 
natural  but,  so  far,  dormant  power  of  sight — a 
power  to  see  what  has  been  called  The  Unseen 
through  all  the  Ages  whose  sightlessness  has 
made  them  Dark?  Who  knows  when  the 
Shadow  around  us  may  begin  to  clear?  Oh,  we 
are  a  dull  lot — we  human  things — with  a  queer, 
obstinate  conceit  of  ourselves." 

"Complete  we  think  we  are,"  Angus  mur- 

106 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

mured  half  to  himself.  "Finished  creatures  I 
And  look  at  us !  How  many  of  us  in  a  million 
have  beauty  and  health  and  full  power?  And 
believing  that  the  law  is  that  we  must  crumple 
and  go  to  pieces  hour  by  hour!  Who'd  waste 
the  time  making  a  clock  that  went  wrong  as 
often?  Nay,  nay!  We  shall  learn  better  than 
this  as  time  goes  on.  And  we'd  better  be 
beginning  and  setting  our  minds  to  work  on  it. 
'Tis  for  us  to  do — the  minds  of  us.  And  what's 
the  mind  of  us  but  the  Mind  that  made  us? 
Simple  and  straight  enough  it  is  when  once 
you  begin  to  think  it  out.  The  spirit  of  you 
sees  clearer  than  we  do,  that's  all,"  he  said  to 
me.  "When  your  mother  brought  you  into 
the  world  she  was  listening  to  one  outside 
calling  to  her,  and  it  opened  the  way  for 
you." 

At  night  Hector  MacNairn  and  his  mother 
and  I  sat  on  the  terrace  under  stars  which 
seemed  listening  things,  and  we  three  drew 
nearer  to  one  another,  and  nearer  and  nearer. 

"When  the  poor  mother  stumbled  into  the 
train  that  day,"  was  one  of  the  things  Hector 
told  me,  "I  was  thinking  of  The  Fear  and  of  my 

107 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

•own  mother.  You  looked  so  slight  and  small 
as  you  sat  in  your  corner  that  I  thought  at  first 
you  were  almost  a  child.  Then  a  far  look  in 
your  eyes  made  me  begin  to  watch  you.  You 
were  so  sorry  for  the  poor  woman  that  you 
could  not  look  away  from  her,  and  something 
in  your  face  touched  and  puzzled  me.  You 
leaned  forward  suddenly  and  put  out  your  hand 
protectingly  as  she  stepped  down  on  to  the 
platform. 

"That  night  when  you  spoke  quite  naturally 
of  the  child,  never  doubting  that  I  had  seen  it, 
I  suddenly  began  to  suspect.  Because  of  The 
Fear" — he  hesitated — "I  had  been  reading  and 
thinking  many  things  new  to  me.  I  did  not 
know  what  I  believed.  But  you  spoke  so 
simply,  and  I  knew  you  were  speaking  the 
truth.  Then  you  spoke  just  as  naturally  of 
Wee  Brown  Elspeth.  That  startled  me  because 
not  long  before  I  had  been  told  the  tale  in  the 
Highlands  by  a  fine  old  story-teller  who  is  the 
head  of  his  clan.  I  saw  you  had  never  heard 
the  story  before.  And  yet  you  were  telling  me 
that  you  had  played  with  the  child." 

"He  came  home  and  told  me  about  you," 

108 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

Mrs.  MacNairn  said.  "His  fear  of  The  Fear 
was  more  for  me  than  for  himself.  He  knew 
that  if  he  brought  you  to  me,  you  who  are  more 
complete  than  we  are,  clearer-eyed  and  nearer, 
nearer,  I  should  begin  to  feel  that  he  was  not 
going — out.  I  should  begin  to  feel  a  reality 
and  nearness  myself.  Ah,  Ysobel!  How  we 
have  clung  to  you  and  loved  you!  And  then 
that  wonderful  afternoon!  I  saw  no  girl  with 
her  hand  through  Mr.  Le  Breton's  arm;  Hector 
saw  none.  But  you  saw  her.  She  was  there!'9 
"Yes,  she  was  there,"  I  answered.  "She 
was  there,  smiling  up  at  him.  I  wish  he  could 
have  known." 

What  does  it  matter  if  this  seems  a  strange 
story?  To  some  it  will  mean  something;  to 
some  it  will  mean  nothing.  To  those  it  has  a 
meaning  for  it  will  open  wide  windows  into  the 
light  and  lift  heavy  loads.  That  would  be  quite 
enough,  even  if  the  rest  thought  it  only  the 
weird  fancy  of  a  queer  girl  who  had  lived  alone 
and  given  rein  to  her  silliest  imaginings.  I 
wanted  to  tell  it,  howsoever  poorly  and  in 
effectively  it  was  done.  Since  I  knew  I  have 

109 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

dropped  the  load  of  ages — the  black  burden. 
Out  on  the  hillside  my  feet  did  not  even  feel  the 
grass,  and  yet  I  was  standing,  not  floating.  I 
had  no  wings  or  crown.  I  was  only  Ysobel  out 
on  the  hillside,  free! 

This  is  the  way  it  all  ended. 

For  three  weeks  that  were  like  heaven  we 
three  lived  together  at  Muircarrie.  We  saw 
every  beauty  and  shared  every  joy  of  sun  and 
dew  and  love  and  tender  understanding. 

After  one  lovely  day  we  had  spent  on  the 
moor  in  a  quiet  dream  of  joy  almost  strange  in  its 
perfectness,  we  came  back  to  the  castle;  and, 
because  the  sunset  was  of  such  unearthly  radi 
ance  and  changing  wonder  we  sat  on  the  terrace 
until  the  last  soft  touch  of  gold  had  died  out 
and  left  the  pure,  still,  clear,  long  summer 
twilight. 

When  Mrs.  MacNairn  and  I  went  in  to  dress 
for  dinner,  Hector  lingered  a  little  behind  us 
because  the  silent  beauty  held  him. 

I  came  down  before  his  mother  did,  and  I 
went  out  upon  the  terrace  again  because  I  saw 

he  was  still  sitting  there.     I  went  to  the  stone 

no 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

balustrade  very  quietly  and  leaned  against  it  as 
I  turned  to  look  at  him  and  speak. 

Then  I  stood  quite  still  and  looked  long — for 
some  reason  not  startled,  not  anguished,  not 
even  feeling  that  he  had  gone.  He  was  more 
beautiful  than  any  human  creature  I  had  ever 
seen  before.  But  It  had  happened  as  they  said 
it  would.  He  had  not  ceased — but  something 
else  had.  Something  had  ceased. 

It  was  the  next  evening  before  I  came  out  on 
the  terrace  again.  The  day  had  been  more 
exquisite  and  the  sunset  more  wonderful  than 
before.  Mrs.  MacNairn  was  sitting  by  her  son's 
side  in  the  bedroom  whose  windows  looked  over 
the  moor.  I  am  not  going  to  say  one  word  of 
what  had  come  between  the  two  sunsets. 
Mrs.  MacNairn  and  I  had  clung — and  clung. 
We  had  promised  never  to  part  from  each  other. 
I  did  not  quite  know  why  I  went  out  on  the 
terrace;  perhaps  it  was  because  I  had  always 
loved  to  sit  or  stand  there. 

This  evening  I  stood  and  leaned  upon  the 
balustrade,  looking  out  far,  far,  far  over  the 

moor.     I  stood  and  gazed  and  gazed.     I  was 

111 


THE    WHITE    PEOPLE 

thinking  about  the  Secret  and  the  Hillside.  I 
was  very  quiet — as  quiet  as  the  twilight's  self. 
And  there  came  back  to  me  the  memory  of  what 
Hector  had  said  as  we  stood  on  the  golden 
patch  of  gorse  when  the  mist  had  for  a  moment 
or  so  blown  aside,  what  he  had  said  of  man's 
awakening,  and,  remembering  all  the  ages  of 
childish,  useless  dread,  how  he  would  stand — 

I  did  not  turn  suddenly,  but  slowly.  I  was 
not  startled  in  the  faintest  degree.  He  stood 
there  close  to  me  as  he  had  so  often  stood. 

And  he  stood — and  smiled. 

I  have  seen  him  many  times  since.  I  shall 
see  him  many  times  again.  And  when  I  see 
him  he  always  stands — and  smiles. 


THE  END 


AS  STAMPED  BELO* 


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